


When I Am King

by apennysun (sapphicTechnician)



Category: Star Wars Legends - All Media Types
Genre: "The Warrior Princess" prequel, F/M, Original Characters - Freeform, Plourr has literally one line in this, give Rial Pernon a hug 2k18
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-29
Updated: 2018-11-29
Packaged: 2019-09-01 07:51:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 30,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16761031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sapphicTechnician/pseuds/apennysun
Summary: There are twelve years, five months, and twenty-nine days between the bloody coup which destroys Eiattu's ruling family and the banquet which sees it restored. And while Plourr Ilo grows up among the stars, Rial Pernon has battles of his own to fight on the ground.Alternate title: "'Are You There, God? It's Me, Rial Pernon': The Warrior Princess Prequel No One Asked For".





	When I Am King

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lexie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lexie/gifts).



> I have a stupid kind of love for the X-Wing comics, which developed into a stupider kind of love for a minor character who appears only twice -- Plourr Ilo's arranged marriage partner, Count Rial Pernon. I love that he's approximately the size of the Hulk but with a much better moustache. I love that he's unbelievably bad at romance and also natural human speech. And I love the way he just rolls with Plourr as she basically destroys their planet's whole system of government. Someone like that desperately needed a backstory, and I figured I might as well be the one to give it to him. 
> 
> This takes strong liberties with canon, particularly with regards to Moff Tavira, mostly because canon doesn't make a ton of sense in its timelines. It's a labor of love -- take it as you find it. Some of the Eiatti royal family's names are canonical, most are thanks to Lexie, who was also almost solely responsible for the development of Rial's personality. I could not have written this -- or Rial -- without her, literally and figuratively, and I owe her All The Hearts for her support, encouragement, and well-timed comments. 
> 
> The last line of the fic is verbatim from The Warrior Princess.

  
_"Wake up without a care, your head's not heavy, your conscience clear_  
_Sins are all forgiven here -- yours and mine_  
_Fear is gone without a trace, it's the perfect time in the perfect place_  
_Nothing's hurting, nothing's sore, no one suffers anymore_  
_The doctor found a simple cure just in time_  
_All these things if I were king would all appear around me_  
_The world will sing when I am king..."_  
Great Big Sea, "When I Am King"

Rial Antbbianplourr Pernon remembers three things clearly from that night. The way his father cried for the first time he could remember, tears slipping down his lined cheeks and disappearing in the flickering blue of the holocomm. The way his mother, still and strong and silent behind her husband, didn't. The way everything changed, and nothing did.

The rest is vague. Waking up to the sound of the comm chirping, an emergency signal he barely remembers programming in. His parents in full holo, Gror with his formal robes thrown loosely over pyjamas and the Priamsta crest sitting crooked over a shoulder, Synna in a nightdress but with her hair twisted back in a perfect braid. The news from the capital. His father's voice breaking only once, unless that was the signal lagging. The stars outside the window. His apartments were far enough away that he couldn't see the smoke. The tramp of boots outside his front door and the brief morbid moment of _protection garrison or vibroblade to the throat?_ Wondering half-wildly if this would be the end or the beginning, if he would see his parents in person again, if he went outside if he would smell the palace burning.

In his memories, night blurs into day. Rial is taken to a safehouse; his ties to the throne and his father's stand against the bloody coup enough to make him a potential target. A young lieutenant sneaks glimpses at the news from his datapad when he thinks no one's looking. Someone takes Rial's comm. Someone else makes him a mug of caf that's just disgusting enough to make his stomach sour but not enough for him to stop drinking it. Two guards have a whispered argument by the door to the 'fresher; Rial only catches one word in three but it's enough for him to keep mainlining caf in an effort to stay awake, sitting with his back to a wall.

Eventually, they let him go back to his apartments. They've been clumsily searched and Rial is suddenly, stupidly happy for that because he doesn't have to sit down and watch the interviews with his father and the Moff and the several dozen ways the press liaisons figure out how not to say _assassinations_. Instead he folds his clothes and sorts the bruised fruit that can be saved and props up his meagre collection of holos. He doesn't think about his family. He doesn't think about little princesses in pools of blood. He doesn't think about a marriage ended before it ever began. He doesn't think about the future. Rial mops boot-prints off his kitchen floor before the droids can get there and very carefully doesn't think about anything at all.

-

In true Eiattu fashion, there's a reception at the palace ten days later. It's painted as a diplomatic opening of doors, a chance for new alliances to be solidified. Banners are hung, the red dragon of the Priamsta too flashy next to the Empire's stark black-and-white geometric circles. The nobility turn out in droves. There has been no official declaration of death ( _the Emperor has abdicated_ , _the Emperor has been deposed_ , _the Emperor is in hiding_ , or the one which makes Rial excuse himself hastily from the banquet table, _the Emperor is no more)_ so there is no official order of mourning and the court dress colors seem brighter and more varied than the usual crimson and purple. It feels like a celebration. It feels wrong.

The conversation is light and guarded even more than usual. The aristocracy has always loved its intrigue and gossip is worth more than platinum, so anyone raised in the court becomes quickly familiar with the doublespeak and delicately coded phrases used to discuss affairs of state and the heart both. Tonight, there's almost none of the former. No one says anything about the stormtroopers who heft their blasters side-by-side with the palace guard. No one remarks on the emptiness of the throne. No one meets Rial's eyes.

After two hours and five glasses of wine he can't stand it any longer. When the Baroness Esstei smiles through thin lips and remarks, for the third time in an hour, on the surprising length of the summer season Rial offers her a curt bow before fleeing as fast as he can without attracting attention.There's a deserted service passageway he's used more than a few times before about two hundred meters away. It's dark and empty and cool and Rial slides down to sit against the wall, head tipped back and body loose. The planet spins faintly underneath him. He's too hot. He wants more wine. He wants to scream. He wants this all to be over, or to have never happened, or to be twelve again and playing hide-and-seek and holding his breath so the nanny droids don't find him.

It's probably close to an hour before Gror Pernon appears, resplendent in his court finery and looking out of place in the dusty corridor. He fastidiously arranges his cloak to cover the ground before he sits across from his son. His voice, when he speaks, is measured and even.

"Hiding from one's duties is not a quality beneficial to the ruling class," the Grand Duke remarks. "And neither is drinking to excess."

Rial closes his eyes. "I'm sorry, Father." The words aren't particularly sincere. "But I already know that the construction for the new theatre is snarling up speeder traffic, that the newest Starflare holo isn't as good as the original, and that the summer has been long. I'm sorry," he repeats. "I could try again in the autumn."

"I will blame your rudeness on the wine." His father's voice is still calm but there's an edge to it that makes Rial want to squirm. "You have a responsibility to the throne. You might act like it."

"The throne?" Deep inside his mind, Rial is horrified at the words coming out of his mouth. His filters, honed and perfected after a lifetime of dealing with the Eiatti court, are gone. "The throne is _gone_. You, the Priamsta, you saw to that--."

The blow rocks his head sideways. He tastes blood, opens his eyes to the sight of his father -- white-haired, immaculate goatees perfectly in place as always -- shaking life back into his open palm. His expression hasn't changed. "What I did," he starts to say and then bites back his next words, closes his eyes for a moment, takes in a slow breath. "What was done, I had no part in. Uthorferrellcartha was my nephew and I loved him like my own and _yes_ ," he snaps out before Rial can do more than open his mouth, "I wanted him to give up power and I wanted the Priamsta to have the power to deal with Moff Tavira on our own terms but I _never_ supported the bloodshed."

Rial swipes his tongue around the inside of his mouth, probes at the split in his cheek. He is suddenly, unfathomably tired. His father in front of him is a beacon in purple and gold, his sigil flashing at his throat even in this low half-light. He is telling the truth, Rial knows, or at least he is telling his truth. It doesn't matter. There is nothing he can say that his father will hear, even if he knew the words for _but you still supported them, you still let this happen_ without having to swallow down the knowledge that he's as much a member of the Priamsta as his father is.

There are a few long minutes of silence before his father pushes himself to his feet, dusts down his cloak. "Consider this, my son." He doesn't look at Rial's face when he speaks. "Eiattu is reeling. Her people need stability, whether from the Empire or from those who have always ruled. If you have any pride in her at all, you'll stop hiding and start building for the future." He straightens the edges of his tunic, goes to glide past but stops just short of the door and drops his hand to Rial's shoulder, ignoring his reflexive flinch. "The Emperor and his family are dead. They can no longer shape our world. You can. And you _will_."

And then he's gone, leaving behind nothing but the military-precise echo of his boots and the way Rial's cheek stings in the cool air.

-

He meets the Lady Jassenecatha at a banquet five weeks later. The Moff is there, sitting at the head table. Gror and Synna sit close. Rial's status is complicated in the rules of the court but as a Count and with his relationship to the royal family the way it is, he is afforded a seat close enough to observe but not quite close enough to hear. That's fine by him; he hasn't talked to his father beyond rote pleasantries since the encounter in the service corridor and doesn't particularly want to.

Lady Jassenecatha is older than him, but not by much. She's a member of the Priamsta, of course, but a somewhat newer family. Her spot at his table is by way of her betrothal to a viscount who seems significantly more concerned with sucking up to Count Labann than he does with speaking to her. After the fifth or sixth time Rial watches her attempt to strike up a conversation and be rebuffed, he takes pity on her and chimes in.

The conversation moves from the boring but always-safe topic of local council policy to the slightly less safe but significantly more scandalous topic of who in the room was having affairs and with whom. The lady ventures speculation that the Baron Erranos is not quite so interested in refills of his wineglass as he is interested in the human server providing said refills, a speculation backed up by the amount of time the Baron's eyes spend glued on the young man's rump. Rial concurs. They both laugh. The viscount looks relieved that his date is having a good time without any input from him, and continues to hang onto Labann's every word. The banquet goes by surprisingly quickly.

There is dancing after, of course. Rial dances with the usual assortment of elderly relatives before a familiar face whirls by in the crowd. When the basse is over he finds her by the refreshments table, viscount nowhere in sight. He offers her a bow. "My lady."

"My lord." She gives him a wry smile in return. "How fares the Duchess?"

He rolls his eyes. "I am now intimately acquainted with the condition of her bad knee, thoroughly chastised for my lack of courtly facial hair, and almost certainly being badmouthed to her next partner for the crime of what my great-aunt did to her mother some forty-five years ago. So." A beat. "Fairly well, I think?"

Jassenecatha covers her mouth when she laughs. "I am most deeply sorry." The smile tugging at the corners of her mouth betrays her words. "If it is any consolation, my last four partners have very delicately avoided mentioning my missing fiancé whilst still managing to imply that I might be lucky to have him...or his court status."

"Shocking." Behind him, Rial can hear the band moving into a pavanne. "And somewhat hypocritical, in most cases." Marrying up the social ladder is a pastime nearly as popular as thak-riding or opera-attending among the elite of Eiattu. "Besides, I would think it would be the other way around."

"I am sure he would have preferred a betrothal to Count Labann." Her voice is dry. "Which he may yet be lucky enough to wrangle."

"Oh, they'd make an awful couple." Most of the court is out on the floor. It's terribly busy, Rial thinks. Far too busy to join. No, he might as well sit this one out and talk. There's an invitingly open doorway to a balcony only a few steps away. Absently, "All elbows and knees. And their moustaches would clash." Before she can respond, Rial reaches out to offer a hand. "Lady Jassenecatha, if I may?"

She smiles again, ducking her head down like she doesn't want him to see. "Please, just Jass." Her hand is small and cool in his. She follows willingly as he tugs her along to the glass doors and out into the warm Eiatti night. "Also, I feel obligated to remind you that people will talk."

"Let them talk." Rial rests his elbows on the edge of the stone railing. The air is humid, the balcony up high enough that he can see where the jungle edges into the city. "We're both -- betrothed." He realizes partway into the sentence how it must end and it trails off awkwardly. It's certainly not the first time he's thought of it since the coup, but it's the first time he's talked about it out loud.

Jass's smile falls. "I am sorry," she says, a little uncertain. It's known, of course, that like the young prince the princess's body was never located, but that doesn't mean she isn't presumed dead. Her name was read at the funeral, although the coffin they burned was empty. There are those who believe she might have been spirited away at the last minute, hiding deep in the jungle or smuggled off-world, but they are few and far in between and Rial can't help but read the desperation of grief in their wild theories.

"It's fine." His voice is perfect, no trace of the roughness he can feel in his chest. He clears his throat anyway. "Besides, it sounds like you could use a friend."

Jass's hand is gentle on his shoulder. Up close, her eyes are warm, a deep brown which matches her hair. "I would like that, Count Pernon."

"Rial," he says, "Just Rial," and the music spills from the half-open door, surrounding them in the moonlight. A scene straight from a holodrama (and he knows what comes next, of course), if it weren't for the memory of a twelve-year-old girl, red hair and soft freckles, sobbing over a murdered whisperkit. A girl who without ever knowing him had her life tangled into his nearly from birth by the archaic traditions which have held his world strong through every storm so far. A girl who will never grow older, cut down by political machinations and the royal blood she carried, a girl who is dead because she must be dead, because if she isn't...

Jass turns away. The music sweeps to a close. The moment is over. Rial turns his face to the warm stars, and buries his own grief, deep inside where it can't leave the seed of an impossible idea in his mind.

-

It's been four months since the bloody coup and Rial is being ushered into a palace conference room that he's never seen before. The table roughly half Priamsta and half Empire delegates; he spots Colonel Davi, the Moff's current representative, sitting next to his father and poring over a datapad. Count Labann is here, and Count Aetar, and the Baron Esstei and the Duke Rorrandacartha, all former members of the Cabinet, all high ranking inasmuch as the Priamsta has a ranking system. There are others he doesn't recognize, mainly talking with the Imperials. All look up when the doors slam shut and lock behind him, guards taking up their places as a faint electrical whine and the feeling of all the hair standing up on Rial's forearms tell him that the room has been shielded.

He offers a deep bow towards his father and the colonel, as protocol dictates. The colonel offers a thin smile in return and gestures with a stylus towards the only open chair remaining, tucked in at the foot of the table. "Thank you for joining us, Count Pernon. Please take a seat."

Rial does. There is water on the table and someone has helpfully left a full glass by his seat, but despite the dryness in his mouth he doesn't reach for it. Instead he knots his hands underneath the table where they can't be seen and focuses on keeping his breathing steady. There is something going on, that much is abundantly obvious -- and he can't help but think that it can be nothing good. Eiattu's stability is like a thin sheet of ice over rushing water, appearing strong and stable from above but with chaos only a millimeter beneath, and vulnerable to any unexpected pressure.

"Count Pernon." It's his father speaking. He is as calm as ever as he hefts a datapad. It must be a good sign, Rial thinks. Surely his father would find some way to warn him if things were about to turn sour. "You are aware of the...controversy...surrounding the investigation into the deaths of the Emperor Uthorferrellcartha, the Empress Einelfanden, the Princess Dullourracartha, the Princess Kassendala, the Princess Isplourrdacartha, and the Prince Harrandatha." His mask does not crack. Rial struggles to match him, to keep his face neutral. "The individuals who claimed responsibility for the assassinations did state that the entire royal family had been eliminated. However, further examination of the evidence by both Eiatti and Imperial investigators," two of the men in Imperial dress incline their heads, as do a man and woman in Eiatti civilian dress, "it has been determined that although trace genetic material was present, the bodies of the Princess Isplourrdacartha and the Prince Harrandatha could not be located."

It sounds strange. It sounds like someone has written it over and over again, searching for the most neutral words, the most delicate phrasing. It does not sound like his father. It doesn't sound real. The news has screamed for weeks about conspiracy theories and lost children despite every refutation from the palace, surely they're not now saying…

But they are. "As per the reports issued by the investigating bodies, it has been decided that the likelihood of the children surviving is slim but possible. Searches are currently underway." His father pauses, sets the datapad down. "As you know, Count Pernon, the current political situation is not stable."

Colonel Davi interrupts. "For the past years, Eiattu has acted as a reluctant signatory for the Empire. Moff Tavira appreciates the cooperation which has been given, but wishes to make it clear that the support and assistance of the Empire is conditional on Eiatti cooperation. _Full_ Eiatti cooperation." He offers another of his thin-lipped smiles, and Rial can almost hear the jaws of the Priamsta creak as they struggle not to grind their teeth. "Of course, the Moff understands that this is a difficult time, even after the apprehension of the...rogue faction. Although she has no plans to permit the restoration of the monarchy -- even if such a thing were possible! -- she understands the people's need for familiarity among the ruling council. She wishes to offer a compromise."

Oh. Oh and Rial thinks he knows where this is heading, can read the writing on the wall. He remembers being a child and learning the lines of succession, filling out the family trees and royal lineage in school. He remembers finding himself on the great holo in the archives, linked into the Emperor's family many times over. _Of course, the succession has a great many steps before you_ , his father had said when he asked, _but our family has always has deep ties to the throne._ And now the succession is gone, smashed to pieces and he can't be the only piece left, but--

Gror is speaking again. Rial forces himself to listen. "Succession has been determined by the royal archivists. With the Princess Dullourracartha's husband dead and the Princess Kassendala's husband -- indisposed," and Rial remembers, yes, the Baron Worroc was one of those that they're calling a _rogue faction_ , if not the man behind the blaster than certainly the coin purse, "the lineage continues through the Princess Isplourrdacartha. With her...uncertain status...it has been agreed unanimously that the throne would then fall to her consort through betrothal, the Count Rial Pernon."

_So that's why he's being so formal_ , is Rial's first thought. There will be recordings of this for the archives, and extras almost certainly hidden away in case of questions later on. His second thought is, _how long has he known and not said anything?_ His third thought is, _oh Sithspit, they want me to take over the planet._

"We're not asking you to take over the planet," a blonde woman with a hawkish nose and an Imperial uniform interjects. Rial nearly swallows his tongue with the thought that he might have been speaking out loud but decides instead that his thoughts may be just that obvious. "As the Colonel has explained, we have no intention of allowing Eiattu to return to a strict monarchy." _Allowing._ Gror's face has not changed, but his knuckles are pale on the datapad. "Rather, you will occupy a position on the ruling council as a representative of the royal family. You will not hold veto power or any other power originally attributed to the throne. You will be a part of decisions made by the council members, who will consist of Priamsta and representatives of the Galactic Empire. In the _very unlikely event_ that the Princess is located alive, you will act as her representative until such time as it is deemed appropriate for her to take your place." The woman fixes him with a steely glare. "Count Pernon, this position is almost entirely ceremonial. Eiattu is a signatory of the Empire and a signatory she will remain. If you wish to continue to enjoy the benefits this brings, you _will_ offer your full cooperation. A smooth transition of power is essential."

Is it Rial's imagination, or does the stormtrooper covering the door closest to his back shift his weapon until it clicks off his ablative plating? He looks around the room again. Those in Imperial uniforms look mainly bored, with the exception of the hawk-faced woman who hasn't looked away from him yet. Even Colonel Davi appears to be tapping on a datapad. This is routine, for them. Simply another day. The Priamsta, on the other hand, look supremely uncomfortable. Count Labann is glowering at the table -- he has some small claim to the throne too, doesn't he? Jealous? -- and Baron Esstei is pale, sweat visible around his collar and receding hairline. Good, Rial thinks with sudden viciousness. They've gotten what they wanted and even gotten away with it, pinned everything on a few scapegoats and come away smelling like a Jabori rose, and only now they're realizing what it means to deal directly with the Empire. And dragging him into their shavit while they're at it.

He briefly entertains the idea of taking a stand and declining. His future spools out in front of him, leaving the room, leaving the palace. Leaving the Priamsta, his family. A little house in the suburbs somewhere. Bookkeeping for a living, far away from the politics and the decisions and the responsibility he never asked for.

And every day, waking up to know that maybe he could have done something and didn't.

Rial clears his throat. Addresses his response to his father. "I understand. I will do all I can to fulfill the needs of Eiattu and her people."

"Your enthusiasm is appreciated but as previously noted, Count Pernon, this is essentially a formality. Your title and status will not change. You will be expected to attend council meetings and participate in the development and implementation of policy as the Moff sees fit." Colonel Davi finishes up whatever he was entering in the datapad, and turns to take a stack of flimsi from a waiting protocol droid. "Your signature, please."

Rial signs three times on flimsi dripping with wax seals and important calligraphy, official documents for the archives, and once on a datapad. He faces a holocam, and records his full name. A small device takes a blood sample. He can still feel the sting at the crook of his elbow when the hawk-faced woman stands and announces "Meeting adjourned."

The Imperials rise almost as one. Gror is a half-moment behind them but even in the clatter of boots and scraping of chairs his voice is clear and strong as he speaks the traditional salute to the world, "For the pride of Eiattu." Caught off-guard the rest of the Priamsta are a ragged chorus of responses, but respond they do. Davi's lips thin until they almost disappear when Rial meets his eyes and lifts his chin high.

"For the pride of Eiattu," he says softly. And when Gror's hand settles heavy on his shoulder, warm even through the fabric of his cloak, he smiles.

-

Rial has been a member of the planetary council for six months when the Lady Jassenecatha finds him destroying a canvas.

Part of acknowledging his place in the succession apparently granted him quarters in the palace. They're nice. Nice and far away from the now unused royal apartments, far away from the whole section of the palace that everyone seems content to pretend no longer exists. There's a bedroom and a living room and a kitchen which he barely uses, content to use and abuse the palace chef-droids, but more than that they have a study which he's pretty sure he's supposed to use for work and which has instead turned into a painting studio.

A painting studio which he has almost immediately begun to hate. For most of his life painting has been an outlet, a release, a way to close out the world and lose himself in creativity. But for the last few weeks the familiar calm has been escaping him. He finds himself scrapping canvases with increasing regularity.

Tonight, after a five-hours council meeting which on the surface was about increasing infrastructure in the outlying farming communities around Nental and Atesse and which seemed to truly boil down to which local governors wanted additional funds they could funnel away, is no different. He starts easily with the idea of the jungle in winter spooling from his brush in muted greens and grays, but soon enough it starts to fall apart. The colors are wrong, the lines clumsy. Frustration bubbles up inside of him and no matter how many times he closes his eyes and breathes deep, tries to push it away, it surges back. His hand shakes and black streaks across white and his brush is gone from his hand before he even realizes he's throwing it. Something shatters and Rial feels something else snap, deep inside, and even as the door-alarm buzzes at the edge of his hearing Rial rears back and puts a fist through his canvas.

The door buzzes again. Rial briefly entertains the thought of ignoring it, decides he's not going to when he's already stalking to the entrance-way. He swats irritably at the pad; as it slides open, "Yes? Can I help--"

The 'you' dies an embarrassing death as he takes in the Lady Jassenecatha in front of him, impeccable in courtly cream and gold, a small stack of datapads in hand. Her eyes are wide as they take him in -- hair caught back in a crooked ponytail, disheveled tunic spattered with paint stains and oh yes, he realizes as he abruptly straightens and respectfully tucks his hands behind his back, paint liberally covering his knuckles as well. And, if the dry itching is anything to go by, spattered up into his hairline.

"Count Pernon," she says faintly, dipping a curtsy. Her eyes are wide but her face is schooled into a perfect mask of polite courtesy. "Viscount Silaris understands you wished to see the reports on Nental's grain transportation systems." She extends the datapads toward him. "He offers his compliments and requests that you contact him with any further questions." There is, Rial notices with dawning horrified embarrassment, a faint redness across both cheeks.

She's still waiting for him. "Thank you," he spits out hastily, swipes a hand across his trousers in an attempt to remove the worst of the green pigment before taking the datapads. They get a cursory glance (not all that important, more likely an attempt at currying favor now that Labann's rebuffed him) before Rial tosses them on the nearest side table and bows in return. Jass is no longer the only one blushing. "Ah -- I apologize for my appearance, my lady. I was...painting."

Jass takes a half-second to sweep her gaze up and down him before returning her eyes firmly to his face. "I might have guessed, Count Pernon." There's a very slight smile playing around her mouth. "Although I confess that I am unfamiliar with painting as a full-contact sport."

Rial laughs before he can help himself, a startled guffaw that coaxes a slightly wider smile from the woman in front of him. "I'd call it artistic expression," he offers wryly, "but I'm afraid that would mean calling it 'art'."

"False modesty does not become you, Count Pernon." Jass hesitates for a moment before meeting Rial's eyes. "Perhaps I could examine the piece for myself."

The corridor gets a suspicious glance before Rial steps to one side and waves her inside with an extravagant bow. There aren't any guards in view and he doubts anyone will be watching the security holos at this time, but he can't shake the niggling feeling that somehow, some way, his mother _will_ find out. And then tear him a new one over daring to invite an unmarried woman into his quarters without a chaperone.

Jass, however, does not seem to have any such qualms. She enters willingly enough and follows Rial to his makeshift studio, where a few half-finished works are scattered around as though hoping to draw the eye away from the tattered canvas in the middle, complete with upended palette.

"I haven't quite finished," Rial points out unnecessarily. "I ran into some...some…"

"Fisticuffs, it looks like." Jass's cheeks are twitching; her expression is still one of polite neutrality but Rial gets the feeling there's a giggle trying to make its way out. "Perhaps one could refer to it as performance art?"

Rial is almost one hundred percent certain that she's trying to soothe his ego. "Or we could call it what it is," he suggests, framing the unfortunate sight with his hands. " _A Study in Incredibly Infuriating Politics._ "

This time, Jass is the one who laughs. Her hands fly up to cover her mouth as her shoulders shake with quiet mirth, and when she turns back to him she can't quite hide her smile. "I'm sure it would be a hit at any gallery," she assures him. "But may I make a suggestion?"

"By all means." Suddenly slightly flustered and unable to pinpoint why, Rial sets about dismantling the easel and discarding the canvas, focusing on getting every last scrap into the garbage so he doesn't have to focus on why her smile makes him feel the way it does.

"My cousin and I grew up together." Jass crosses to the window, one hand resting on the pane as she stares out at the night. "We were almost the same age and very close, although I expect he was considered a bad influence. He was never interested in staying on-planet or following in the family line. He wanted to be a pilot. He used to say that whenever he fought with my aunt and uncle, or some distant relative told him he was wasting his life, he would practice in the simulators. It wasn't as good as real flying, he said, but it was as close as he could get."

At some point, Rial realizes that he's stopped cleaning. He watches her back, the reflection of her face in the window. She's smiling again but not, he thinks, at him. "He started bringing me with him after my parents arranged my betrothal to the viscount. I find it an excellent way to relieve frustrations." She catches his eye with her reflection. "And it requires very little clean-up afterwards."

Well, Rial thinks, what does he have to lose? Other than the painting which, he has to admit, is already scrap unless he can convince someone it's a form of modern expressionism and worth several thousand credits (unlikely). "I would be honored to accompany you, my lady." The last of the canvas successfully shoved deep into the waste disposal unit, Rial casts a critical eye over the paint-stained walls before electing to ignore them. "If I might be permitted the liberty of changing?"

"By all means." Jass dips into an elegant curtsy. "I would offer to wait outside, but…"

Rial can complete that sentence without hesitation. "But I'm going to hear about this from my mother as it is, guards or no guards. I'm almost positive she gets security cam footage directly to her quarters." He guides Jass through into the living room, indicating the only chair not currently playing host to a stack of datapads, and scoots into his room. As the door hisses closed and he starts to peel off his painting tunic, he realizes that he's smiling, the bad mood of earlier dissipating like clouds after a summer storm. His mother, he decides with a sudden spark of defiance, can gasp and despair about his dalliances as much as she wants. It's been far too long since he's done something because he wanted to, and Jass seems like she could use a friend. If the viscount can't be that much to her, well…

That's hardly Rial's fault.

-

For the first couple of sessions, Rial starts to think that he made a mistake. He can fly speeders, of course, took lessons and everything (but then who _can't_ , really, they're about as idiot-proof as it's possible to get) but he's never so much as touched a snubfighter and the programs that Jass queues up are all X-wings, Headhunters, TIE fighters dancing in the star-studded blackness of space. She assures him that the controls are relatively intuitive but that doesn't stop him from crashing eight times in his first seventy-two minutes of flying. Each time he almost doesn't want to leave the simulator's cockpit, preferring to hide the flaming embarrassment on his face where no one can see, but each time Jass calmly restarts the program and begins guiding him through the basics once more.

Once he can reliably stay under control at all speeds, he starts to find his heart speeding up at the sound of the cockpit hissing shut and the pressurized seals activating. Where there was originally anxiety and preemptive shame there's now a kind of twisting anticipation which reminds him of climbing the kapok trees as a child, clinging to the highest branches before he learned how painful a fall could be and the safety of the ground. The difference is that in the simulators there's no rushing air and hard ground waiting for him. No consequences. Now, he can throw himself into aerial acrobatics in deep space or simulated atmosphere and the only one he answers to is himself. It's a rush like he's never felt before, and before long he's a regular in the simulation rooms.

The first time he vapes a VI-controlled fighter, he feels smug enough to brag to Jass about his success. She listens politely, offers respectful compliments, and then destroys him in less than three minutes in a one-on-one. Rial's ego barely manages to survive, only slightly salved when he sees how often her name appears in the logs. Her standing in the court is awkward; she's marrying far above her station and as such is reliant on her fiance to facilitate social connections and introduce her to appropriate circles. With the viscount's political scheming and distinct lack of interest in his fiancee, however, she's been left mainly to fend for herself, and it's clear that her cousin's coping mechanisms have become her own. Rial would never begrudge her that.

Besides, it's incentive to improve. As the months pass he slowly finds himself able to last five minutes, then ten, and then to wind up in a stalemate which finally ends in a dramatic head-to-head suicide run when both realize at the same time that their time in the sims expires in less than thirty seconds. They both exit their cockpits laughing, flushed, Jass's hair coming loose from its elaborate knot and Rial's tunic starting to open at the throat. A group of palace guards Rial only vaguely recognize are waiting their turn and there's an awkward moment of half-recognition. Jass smooths a nervous hand over her hair and Rial tries to pretend he's not blushing. As they gather their things and attempt to look presentable they keep choking on laughter, adrenaline still pumping high.

"We could meet again tonight," Rial suggests as he straightens his Priamsta crest in the small ready room off the main simulator hall. "After the banquet?" There's a formal dinner to recognize the coming of age of some duchess whose name he can't remember, which means that the main topic of conversation will be on potential matches for her. The perfect night to slip away early.

"I would enjoy that very much, Count Pernon," Jass replies. Her voice is noblewoman-even and she's already schooled her face back into its perfect mask, calm as still water. The only things ruining the image are the hairpins she's holding clenched between her teeth as she attempts to finger-comb her hair back into order -- and the way her eyes, meeting his as he turns to leave, dance with mischief. "Perhaps a rematch is in order?"

But when Rial gets back to his quarters, still grinning to himself, it's to the softly flashing red light of a received message. His mother's voice, a tone that anyone else would have called _measured_ and which Rial knows means _seriously ticked off_ , ever-so-politely requesting his presence in her quarters at his earliest convenience. Rial knows better than to delay. There's time enough for a five-minute sanisteam to remove the worst of the sweat but that's all he can excuse. She'll know if he procrastinates. Somehow, she always knows.

The Grand Duchess Synna Pernon looks like she's sitting for a portrait. She's in her evening dress already, and her expression is severe, hands folded tightly in her lap. Rial's father is nowhere to be seen. Rial takes a seat on a settee that almost certainly would be banned by the Planetary Ethics Committee as an instrument of torture and tries not to sweat.

His mother's voice, when she speaks, is frosty. "I am given to understand that you have been spending time with the Lady Jassenecatha." Her tone makes clear that there is no question implied but the silence which follows is gaping and awkward and Rial can't help but fill it.

"Yes, mother." Oh gods and she's still not saying anything, just letting the silence stretch on and on. "She has become a good friend."

"So I hear." The words are clipped. Synna's face is a mask of perfect calm but that means exactly nothing. The Grand Duchess's control is legendary. "This will stop, Rial."

Well. Rial was expecting displeasure -- a warning to watch his activities, a lecture on court etiquette, a sharp reprimand regarding the necessity of chaperones -- but he can't say he was expecting this. "Excuse me?"

"Outside of court, you will cease your association with the Lady Jassenecatha." Synna is looking directly into his eyes, but Rial can't read the expression on her face. "This includes personal visitation and correspondences...and simulator exercises."

Rial doesn't know what to say, which is probably why the words that do make it out of his mouth are words he hasn't used since he was eight and his cousin had stolen the stuffed thuvasaur he'd saved up his allowance to buy. "Mother, that's not _fair_. We're both adults--"

"You are both adults and you both have _responsibilities_ , Rial." For a moment Synna's mask cracks and Rial can see the emotions warring on her face, the lines of age around her eyes she tries so hard to hide. She's gotten old, he realizes, always knew-- they had him late, after years of struggling with genetic incompatibilities -- but now he sees it like he never did before. His stomach drops, becomes a rock. She's not trying to control him. She's trying to protect him.

Synna passes a hand over her face, forefinger and thumb pinching the bridge of her nose like her head aches. Her face is expressionless once more. "I do not expect the Lady Jassenecatha to be familiar with court protocol," she says, and the subtle insult does not fly over Rial's head, "but you have no excuse. Our position is precarious. Even small rumors can do more damage than you could imagine."

Rial drops his eyes and fights the urge to scuff a foot across the floor like a guilty child. Softly, "We're just friends, mother."

"I know that much." Slowly, the tension is leaving Synna's shoulders. She offers Rial a quiet half-smile. "But you are a representative of the throne, if only in name, and she is betrothed, and the gossip mills are never silent. If word were to reach the viscount, if he were to offer a formal challenge…" She shakes her head. "I want you to be happy, my son. Truly, I do. But our duty to our world, our people, comes first."

Rial wants to argue. He wants to scream and stamp his feet and fight for what feels like one of the first real friendships he's had as an adult. But as he opens his mouth he sees his mother's face, the look in her eyes, and he remembers the way his parent's quarters have always had two separate sleeping chambers, remembers growing up and seeing how different their public faces were compared to how they lived in private, what they've both given up for the crown they've always served before their own interests.

His father's voice in his ears, _for the pride of Eiattu_.

Rial takes a deep breath and schools his face into a mask that would rival his mother's best. He straightens his back, locks his shoulders into a military-precise stance. "I understand, Grand Duchess."

_For the pride of Eiattu._

\--

Nineteen months and twelve days after the coup, the Lady Jassenecatha becomes the Viscountess Silaris. The ceremony is surprisingly well-attended, the viscount having finally succeeded in ingratiating himself with the elite of the peerage. Rial is there too, of course, acting on the behalf of the throne. He sits in an uncomfortable chair during the ceremony and lets the mask of dignified stoicism he's been working to perfect settle over his face while in his mind he twists and darts through high atmosphere, safe in his cockpit. After the ceremony is complete he shakes the hand of the viscount, who doesn't look particularly happy -- the marriage won't do anything for _his_ political status, and Rial knows there's no love lost between them -- and politely kisses the air above Jass's gloved hand, sheathed in pale Medth silk and smelling faintly of starflower. When he straightens up and meets her eyes, his mask is reflected perfectly in her face.

At the reception afterwards his mother corners him behind a potted plant. He's been drowning his sorrows in Corellian brandy and spicefruit meringue, watching the dancers and idly wondering just how many are truly enjoying themselves, when a swirl of amaranthine skirts alerts him to her presence. The Grand Duchess takes a sip from the flute of sparkling wine she's carrying, sweeps a critical eye over the scene in front of her, and remarks, "Your choice of dance partners leaves something to be desired, my son."

Rial can't resist rolling his eyes as he swats a leaf off his shoulder. "And I'm sure you come bearing a list of less ferny options, am I correct?"

With the speed and impossibility of a magic trick, Synna's empty hand is abruptly holding a fan. She snaps it open and arches a perfect eyebrow at Rial over the top. "As luck would have it…"

" _Mother_ ," Rial all-but-whines. He really isn't in the mood for this conversation. He's had too much brandy and too much food and he's been building up a really good sulk since the morning. All he really wants to do is hide behind his plant until the hour is late enough for it to be socially acceptable for him to retire to his bed, where he can feel properly sorry for himself until he has to be a count again. "I danced with the Lady Jas-- Silaris, as required, and said exactly nothing which could possibly be construed as anything but formalities. I danced with the Baroness Esstei and pretended I had absolutely no idea what she meant when she started talking about how she heard I was good in a cockpit. I danced with the Lady Aetar, who seriously needs to re-examine either her footwork or her footwear. I even danced with Great-Aunt Tarith and she smells like she got confused between her perfume and some sort of crowd-control spray. I've _done_ my part."

"Congratulations are in order, I'm sure." Is Rial crazy, or is there the tiniest sparkle in his mother's eyes, like she's hiding a smile behind the fan? Perhaps the dancing is going to her head. "But the fact remains that while you are officially a betrothed man, there are certain...leeways which can be exploited. Court protocol has many ambiguities." She pauses for another sip, eyes cast demurely downwards. "The Lady Arrondite has expressed interest."

The Lady Arrondite is the widow of the Earl Arrondite, a member of the so-called _rogue faction_. Officially his death was ruled an accident; a blaster with a malfunctioning trigger, an empty room where no one would think to look until it was far too late. The rumors which blow around court suggest that a note was found, but of course, no such thing could be verified. Rial has a vague memory in his head of a older woman, slight and blonde, a silent shadow behind her husband's bluster and pomp. "In dancing? She may need to get in line behind the local flora."

Synna somehow manages to convey the impression that she's rolling her eyes without, in fact, rolling her eyes. "I did _not_ raise you to be facetious, my son."

Rial decides not to mention the amount of said raising which was performed by nanny droids, and goes back to trying to disentangle the overly-amorous plant from his tunic. "I'm not interested in your matchmaking, Mother. Especially when nothing can ever come of it."

"Marriage may be out of the question but your happiness is not 'nothing', Rial." Synna's fan flutters slightly faster. "You do not need to spend your life alone."

"And I don't need to spend my life with one of Eiattu's most eligible widows." Rial runs a hand through his hair, dislodging a twig in the process. "I appreciate it, Mother. Truly I do. But I'm _fine_."

"I know you are." The Lady Synna doesn't meet his eyes. Instead she watches the dancers, swirling in their riot of color and song. Her fan has dropped and her expression is one of an emotion Rial can't quite pin down, wistful and strange. "Just -- remember, please. Marriage may not be in your future, but that may allow you more of a future than you might imagine."

Before Rial can puzzle through her words her face is hidden once more, fan snapping back up with a crack like a whip. She gives him one critical glance, reaches out to pluck a crumpled bud from an epaulet, and sweeps away without another word. By the time Rial has finished extracting himself from the greenery she's already halfway across the ballroom and in the arms of his father, the two moving as one through the steps of a graceful waltz. She's smiling, he sees as they twirl together.

But it doesn't reach her eyes.

-

Three years and six months after the coup, a directive from the Moff stipulates a nearly seven-percent increase in the duties paid to the Empire for the glory and benefit of being a signatory. Along with the money are provisions for increased garrison presence with a corresponding increase in allowances for their living expenses, a higher percentage of exported foodstuffs to be earmarked for Imperial use, more factory time devoted to Empire-sanctioned projects such as weapons fabrication. Copies are presented to all council members a week before the ratification meeting and Rial spends most of that time reading the text over and over, fighting the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. They've framed it as a mutually beneficial arrangement, as Eiattu's contribution to a war she's been so-far protected from, as a necessity which will pay itself back in safety and economic growth and, and, and -- but all Rial can see when he closes his eyes is a noose, tightening.

"Eiattu is an _independent_ signatory," he argues at dinner with his father, waving a forkful of rygg noodles. "We're in deep to the Empire as it is, but this is just the start. They're just going to keep _taking_. What's this going to do to some of the smaller city-states? Trade and export are all they have. The taxes alone..."

Across from him, Gror offers a shrug. "It's not the first time the treaties have been revised, my son. It certainly will not be the last. And it will benefit us in the long run."

"Us?" Rial's fork hits the plate with a little more force than he intended. Gror winces. "The Priamsta? Or the people?"

His father takes a calm bite of meat, chews, pats his mustachios dry with a napkin. "One would hope they are one and the same. The council acts on behalf of the people, Rial. We will not let them down. The treaty amendments will not be implemented unless the council reaches a agreement."

Rial's not nearly so sure, but Synna is looking pained -- " _Please_ ," she murmurs into her wineglass, "no council business at the _table_ ," -- and he has to admit that his father has been on the council for far, far longer than he has. And even with the death of Uthor and his ideals for a more united citizenry of Eiattu, surely, they haven't strayed so far from the path he'd made…

But he's wrong. Or rather, he's right in one of the few instances he desperately wishes he wasn't. Colonel Davi heads the meeting, his smile thin and insincere as he outlines the duty increases, the export changes, the numbers which represent time and money and goods pulled away from Eiattu. There's resistance, of course, but as the meeting continues and the resistance is met with concessions which seem to benefit the city governors and council members more than anything else it becomes clear that no one's actually come here with the intent to argue. Rial speaks up when he can. He presents the charts and numbers that show potential economic damage, the statements from department heads and factory CEOs, but he's met by nothing but gentle shut-downs shading to firmer denials as the meeting goes on. People start yawning, checking their chronos, discussing lunch plans under their breath. No one is listening. No one is _trying_ to listen.

When the meeting wraps up, Rial's signature is on the documents ratifying the treaty modifications and his stomach is twisting with shame. He gathers his things in a quiet daze. He knows, of course, has always known that his position is -- how had the hawk-faced woman put it? _Almost entirely ceremonial_ \-- but it's one thing to hear that and another entirely to realize that not a single person in the room is listening to him. That he doesn't _matter_. The humiliation burns.

When his father's hand lands heavy on his shoulder, he flinches. Gror's face betrays nothing as he requests, soft enough that those around them won't be able to hear, that Rial stay behind a moment. Rial doesn't meet his eyes, just shuffles through datapads until the room is finally empty and a quiet word from the Grand Duke has dismissed the remaining guards to outside the closed door.

"You are not happy, my son." Gror sits in an empty chair, back as ramrod-straight as ever. His gaze is even, steady. Rial can't read his face. "You do not agree with the council's position."

"No, Father." Rial tries to keep his voice even. He's not a child anymore, throwing tantrums if he doesn't get away, but that doesn't mean it doesn't hurt. He swallows pride that cuts like a knife down his throat, and forces the words out. "But I support the council in its decision."

"Hm." Gror retrieves a datapad from the stack next to him and scrolls through it briefly. When he finds what he's looking for he extends it towards Rial, expression still inscrutable. "The council has requested that I bring this to your attention."

Startled at what seems like an abrupt change of subject, Rial hesitates before taking the pad. At first glance it looks like a proposal of some sort. A city-state's governor is petitioning for…"They want me to act as a liaison?" He only vaguely knows the area, several hours to the south.

"The governor has requested a capital representative, yes." Gror steeples his fingers and peers at Rial over the top of them. "Selaresk has been relatively independent in the past years. The governor wishes to bring their policies more into line with the planetary government." Unspoken, _the governor wishes to ingratiate himself with the capital and reap whatever rewards may fall_. "The council felt you would be a good fit for the position."

Rial can feel his cheeks burn. City-states request capital representation all the time, and are almost always sent the lesser nobles of the court. People the council can do without. The lower ranks. Unimportant in the political landscape, they are sent to feel important as the head of whatever backwater government that wishes to drag itself forwards into progress. Rial may only be a count but he represents the crown. There's only one reason why the council would vote to send him.

Evenly, "This is a punishment."

"No." Gror's face doesn't change. Rial fights to match him. "It's an opportunity."

"To do _what_ ?" It comes out a little more sharply than he intended, and he ducks his head in a silent apology. He can't argue. He shouldn't argue. _For the pride of Eiattu_ , he reminds himself. But his own pride smarts.

"To learn." His father stands abruptly, clear dismissal in his words and the way he sweeps past Rial without a second glance. The words on the datapad in front of him blur as he hears the door hiss open and shut. His father's voice rings in his ears, _an opportunity to learn_ but all Rial can think, three and a half years after the coup and staring blankly at his future, is _exile._

\--

Selaresk is greener than the capital. Nestled in the jungle near the river delta, the rainy season hits hard and Rial's first several weeks are an adventure in learning to read the signs of impending cloudburst and make it from his rooms to the offices without completely soaking his socks. Their parliament building is built in the new style, airy and open, which he's sure must be wonderful in the hot season -- but there's nothing quite like thinking he's safe under cover and having an unexpected wind dump what feels like half the river on his head.

Selaresk is greener than the capital, and smaller. Rial's quarters turn out to be a little house about ten minute's walk from the parliament complex, backing up to a large swathe of trees. His neighbors are almost solely unmarried civil servants or local law enforcement; none are titled with the exception of an esquire who seems more than a little embarrassed that Rial recognizes his family name from years of having to be intimately familiar with the peerage. There's the usual polite bows and handshakes during greetings or introductions but the stilted and overly-formal diction of the Priamsta is nowhere to be found. For the first two weeks it's strange and uncomfortable and Rial finds himself longing for company where no one says exactly what they mean and facial expressions are all the same -- and then slowly, he finds himself rediscovering what it is to simply _socialize_. No ulterior motives, no political machinations, just being friendly.

It's remarkably soothing.

To his eternal gratitude, no one mentions his position in the court. The local governor is a short, portly man whose heavily waxed mustache is several seasons out of fashion and who seems far more interested in the latest zoneball scores than whatever political machinations have dumped Rial in his lap. Indeed, he seems more pleased to have an extra hand than anything else and after the first few days Rial finds himself proxying in meetings more often than not. The ministers tolerate it with good grace and appear to expect little more than a signature on occasion. It's clear that they're used to running the city-state by themselves.

As the weeks press on, Rial finds himself speaking up more in meetings. Questioning little things; why is there a tax break offered to this company and not that one? Why does this ministry do certain things and not others? Why is this factory devoting so much of its time to this product and not that one? At first the answers are short and not particularly helpful, boiling down to _because they are_ more often than not, but it doesn't take long for the ministers to warm up to him and start explaining the processes they've come to take for granted. It's eye-opening, the amount of work and knowledge it takes to keep a city-state running smoothly, the details that have to be kept straight. The things which seem simple -- well, why not just cut the budget _here_ and move the excess to _there_ \-- are suddenly anything but: because this money is allocated _here_ but in fact is transferred _here_ where it's used to pay for programs _there_ and if we cut the budget _there_ it's actually going to affect things _here, here,_ and _there_. It's enough to make him want to tear his hair out and yet at the same time, he wants to know more. It feels like learning to fly, learning each of the instruments separately and understanding their functions and then trying to put it all together, struggling until one day something _clicks_ and he sees the bigger picture…

He tries explaining it that way to the Minister for Transport one day, during an extended lunch hour. The minister nods politely throughout the explanation before opening her mouth and destroying Rial's good mood with one sentence.

"But surely you aren't expected to deal with such things, Count Pernon."

She's right, of course. _Entirely ceremonial._ Rial isn't expected to know anything about governance. Rial could live the rest of his life sleeping through council meetings and cultivating his facial hair instead of paying attention to anything that's actually going on around him and the worst part is: that's almost certainly what people are hoping he'll do. He's the representative of a throne which doesn't exist. He doesn't matter. The council is probably hoping he'll be forgotten here.

"That's true, Minister." She's looking at him with something like searching in her eyes, like she's waiting for his next words. Her mask is good but it's nothing compared to what he's grown up trying to see through, and he sees the hesitation in her face. She's waiting for a certain answer, he realises. Anticipating. Her words weren't cutting, weren't dismissive -- they were a question. A test. In the back of his mind his father watches him over intertwined fingers. Studying his reaction. _An opportunity_ , he'd said. _Not a punishment._ Which Rial had been certain wasn't true because why else would they banish him from court to some backwater city-state unless they wanted to be rid of him? Unless…

Unless they thought he could be a threat in some way?

The minister clears her throat softly, and Rial realizes that he's let the silence hang a beat too long. It doesn't matter. His heart is singing in his throat, his whole body thumping with the sudden understanding. Like the moment he took the pilot's yoke for the first time, and understood how everything worked together. A place for everything, and everything in its place. "But how could I ensure the best decisions are made for my planet without understanding how she functions? I hope I might be able to learn something of governing from my time here."

The older woman's smile is faint but it is there, a twitch of her lips and a sparkle in her eye. "A noble goal, Count Pernon. I'm quite sure we'll be able to further your education." And then with the deftness of someone who's spent long years learning to control a conversation she shifts the topic to the upcoming local solstice celebrations and Rial is left with a feeling like wading through shallow water and happening upon an unexpected drop-off: unsure exactly what will be under his feet as he finds a place to set them, but sure that, walking or swimming, he'll be able to make his way forwards.

\--

"So let me get this straight: you've _never flown_? For real?"

The woman sitting across from Rial on his tiny lanai was up until a few moments ago balancing on the back two legs of her chair, nursing a lomin ale. Now the chair's back on the ground and she's leaning across the table with both hands flat out like she needs them to hold her upright, a comically shocked expression on her face. "How is that even _possible_?"

Rial buries his face in his own ale, trying to force back the rising tide of his blush by sheer willpower. "I've flown speeders and skimmers," he objects, fully aware that his argument loses a little weight when he still can't look her in the eye. "But it's not like the palace keeps a supply of starfighters on hand for whatever young noble wants to feel like a hotshot. I simmed, though. It's pretty much the same thing."

"Count _Pernon_ ," the woman all-but-wails -- Rial has the distinct feeling that the ale she's gesturing wildly with isn't the first thing she's had to drink tonight -- "That's like...that's like saying you've never been swimming but you've had a bath before and that's pretty much the same thing. It. Is. _Not_." She pauses for a drink, which gives Rial enough time to try and squash down the helpless laughter that's threatening to erupt.

It's been almost five years since the coup and Aesha Sirratartha has been his neighbor for six months. An ex-fighter pilot who gave up the skies for a career in law enforcement, the brash, bright woman has quickly become a friend. Her unit is often assigned to public guard/escort duty (as unnecessary as such a thing seems here) and as she put it the first time she came over, waving a bottle and a pack of sabacc cards, if they see each other that often they might as well get to know each other. With the exception of some great-great-grand-uncle somewhere she has absolutely no ties to the nobility ( _that's me_ , she tells him brightly, _common as mud and twice as dirty_ then throws her head back and laughs at the look at his face) and, like Rial, no real ties to Selaresk either. Of course, he finds himself thinking guiltily more often than not, she's certainly not someone his mother would _approve_ of, but...

It doesn't matter. They're just friends.

"We're getting you in the air one way or another," Aesha informs him. She's pulled out a datapad and is scrolling intently with one hand, the other still casually punctuating her sentences. "I know a guy who knows some people -- we'll make it work. That's just a godsdamn _travesty._ "

"What, you don't have your own?" The dry words cover up the frission of anxiety which rolls through him at the thought of actually flying. Sure, he's good in the sims, but to actually be up there, in atmosphere or hard vacuum, the only thing preventing him from ending up a messy smear of twisted metal and unrecognizable body parts being himself, his skills and abilities, his decisions -- it's enough to make his stomach twist.

Aesha pauses to raise an unamused eyebrow at him over the datapad. "Do I look like I can afford a snubfighter? On the salary I get? I don't _think_ so." Her fingers hover over the screen for a moment, a self-satisfied smile breaking over her face. "Gotcha. Okay. So there's this guy I used to work with, he's in Nental doing private security now, he knows a guy in the capital who retofits old fighters -- you know, for collectors? And _he_ knows someone in Down's Landing -- that's not even an hour away -- with an old Headhunter they're not doing anything with, figures she might let us take it up a couple times in exchange for some work on it."

Now it's Rial's turn to look skeptical. "I've flown in sims, Aesha. I've never even _touched_ a snubfighter, let alone know how to fix one up. Are you sure this is a good idea?"

"What? Positive. It's great." Her fingers are flying again, evidently messaging this mysterious woman with snubfighters to spare. "I used to play sabacc with the mechanics all the time, I'm sure we can figure it out." She finishes the message and plunks the datapad with a self-satisfied expression that doesn't at all match the sinking feeling in Rial's stomach at her next words. "C'mon, what could go wrong?"

\--

"Oh, my gods," Rial says faintly. His hands are white-knuckled on the pilot's yoke despite the powered-down engines and his whole body is jammed into the seat like he can keep the snubfighter together by sheer force of will and muscle tension. "I broke the ship."

" _Technically, it was already broken_ ." Aesha's voice, crackling from his headset and barely audible over the pounding of his heartbeat in his ears, is not particularly comforting. " _It's not your fault the repulsors short out unpredictably._ "

"I've been in this cockpit for less than six minutes and I spent five minutes and forty seconds of that doing pre-flight checks and then I _broke the ship_ ," Rial points out. There's an edge of hysteria to his voice that he can't seem to get rid of. The Headhunter lists awkwardly just outside its hangar, skid marks showing exactly where the repulsors failed to send it dropping heavily to the ferrocrete and sliding some forty meters on its belly before he killed the engines.

" _That's probably some kind of record_ ," Aesha observes unhelpfully. Rial can see her trotting towards him, an astromech in tow. " _Look at it this way; you discovered something we have to fix_ and _you got to practice emergency procedures_." She vaults onto the wing and pops the cockpit from the outside. As it hisses open Rial lets his head fall forward, thunking into the pilot's yoke as he tries to remember how to breathe."So it's pretty much a win-win."

Rial lets out a heartfelt groan. Aesha laughs. She is definitely not taking this as seriously as him. "I'm never flying again."

"Thakshavit." Aesha swats the back of his helmet. "You didn't even fly for real. Now get out and let's fix this mess before Shrie comes back." The astromech whistles mournfully behind her. " _Quickly_."

The second flight attempt sees Rial actually manage to stay airborne for a good fifteen minutes before something on the port wing turns into a fireball and his flight computer doesn't appear to recognize that there's anything wrong. The landing is smooth enough though and, as Aesha points out, it's always good to be familiar with a hangar's fire-suppression systems. Rial has to shower for an hour before the smell of charred wiring isn't overpowering and even then it's the first formal dinner he's ever been to where people keep making excuses _not_ to be near him.

The third time, he's up for twelve minutes before the emergency alarms begin to shriek about total engine failure. Given that both engines are still running smoothly, Rial continues to practice his maneuvering for a further nine minutes until he realizes that he can't hear Aesha in his headset anymore and he's unconsciously started grinding his teeth to the klaxon's rhythm. The ringing in his ears lasts four hours but the elation at a successful flight lasts at least a day. Totally worth it.

Gradually, the Headhunter starts to run more and more like a real snubfighter. Aesha wasn't completely exaggerating her mechanical skill and Shrie, the Quarren who actually owns the ship, starts grudgingly chipping in her time when she sees just how badly Rial wants to fly. Between the three of them parts that haven't been serviced since it came off the line are repaired or replaced at a steady rate and Rial spends more time in the air each flight.

Eight months after the first disastrous attempt, Shrie buys a battered A-wing from somewhere Rial is _sure_ he doesn't want to know about. It doesn't look like much but it's flight-capable and for the first time since Jass (a memory he pushes away hard, a remnant of a life he can't and won't have) he flies with a wingman. Aesha pushes the ramshackle fighter to its limits and Rial matches her with an ease that surprises him, dancing through the air until a cranky comm from the local air control station sends them scooting back into non-restricted airspace like scolded children, trying to hold back their laughter. Shrie throws her hands in the air when they land and generally despairs, ranting under her tentacles about levels of immaturity as she hooks up the refueling hoses and Rial tries tno pretend he's not grinning. He's bent over the tiny cargo hold trying to extract his flight bag when Aesha sweeps up behind him, turns him around with both hands on his shoulders, and presses her mouth to his.

Rial freezes. Her lips are warm and just a little rough, dry and chapped from recycled helmet-filtered air. Her eyes are closed and he knows this because his are open, because he's frozen, because this is his first real kiss and holy Sithspit _what is he supposed to do._

Aesha pulls back. Her expression is suddenly awkward, color rising to her cheeks. She busies herself tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear and doesn't quite look at him when she mutters, "I'm sorry."

"What?" As soon as it comes out Rial cringes, augh, his voice is doing things it hasn't done since puberty. "I mean -- what, no, you don't have to -- I don't -- I was just. Um. Surprised?" He's blushing too. They're like little passion-flower twins. This is the most awkward moment Rial has had since Great-Aunt Sina asked him what he thought of his uncle's behind. "I've never -- I mean not _never_ , just...never," he finishes lamely.

"What, never ever?" Aesha is still looking supremely uncomfortable but there's the start of a smile playing around her lips. "What do they _do_ in the capital all day?"

"Mainly? Gossip about other people's relationships." It comes out a bit more frankly than he'd intended but it makes her choke on a startled laugh so that's okay. "I was betrothed, remember. By law I still am."

"...right." He can't read the expression that sweeps across her face, too fast to read before it's gone and replaced with an easy neutrality that would be at home on any of the court ladies. "I'd forgotten."

"It's okay, though." She's still standing too close and he can smell sweat and shampoo, can see the way she chews on dry lips. He thinks he would very much like to kiss her again. Properly, this time. "I don't...it's okay. This is, I mean. You." Gods, why does he go so _stupid_ at the worst moments?

Aesha saves him from himself. She wraps a cool hand around the back of his neck and stretches up to kiss him softly, chaste. She pulls back just far enough for him to see her eyes sparkle as she asks, "This?"

"This," Rial confirms, and leans forward into her. They'll only have a moment or so before Shrie catches them, he knows, but--

So, so worth it.

\--

They've been -- well, _seeing each other_ is a delicate turn of phrase for what's really just a tangle of flying and working and also, yes, some kissing. More often than not they're both tired and content to just flop together on Rial's squashy couch and watch holos until one or the other or both fall asleep. Sometimes they make dinner. Sometimes Aesha slips her hand down his pants when he's least expecting it but that's as far as they go.

She brings it up one night, after they've enjoyed a rather thorough makeout session in lieu of actually paying attention to _The Black Bantha._ There's been some moderate groping at least by Rial's standards but when she goes to undo the front of his pants and he gently but firmly guides her fingers away she sits up, rakes hair away from her face and stares down at him with arms crossed over her half-unbuttoned top. "Is it me?"

"What?" Still distracted by the sudden loss of her lips on his, Rial blinks up at Aesha and struggles to think.

"This. Us. It's been three months, Rial." Three months and they've stopped dancing around each other like lovestruck teens (or she has, at least, Rial still has minimal control over the flow of blood to his cheeks and...other areas) but it's not like they've ever talked about it, what they are, not really. "A girl's got needs, you know."

Oh. Oh. _Oh_. Well, then. "It's not you." It's me, he wants to say, but he's uncomfortably aware that he'd be quoting the holo they watched last night, the one they hadn't managed to finish because all the snacks they were tossing at the viewer made it short out. "It's just…"

"It's a Prim thing, yeah?" Everyone uses the nickname but somehow in her mouth it sounds dirtier than usual, like she's spitting it out to rid herself of a bad taste. "Blah blah courtly manners blah blah no sex before marriage blah blah _blah_."

"It's _not_ ," Rial snaps, and pushes himself out from under her in one smooth motion. He brings his knees up to his chest so he's curled defensively on one end of the couch and she's kneeling on the other, a no-man's zone of upholstery between them. "It's just not proper."

"Proper?" That was clearly not the right thing to say. "Kriff _proper."_

_"_ I would if I knew _how_ ," Rial throws back and then there's a moment of silence before Aesha cracks up. She doubles over until her gales of only slightly frustrated laughter are muffled in a throw pillow and Rial only manages a minute or so of stoney silence before he's mirroring her and laughing too, helplessly.

It's later that night when they're curled up together in Rial's bed that Aesha rests her head on his shoulder and murmurs, "We still have to talk about it."

Rial's got his back to her and he's glad for that, that she doesn't see the look on his face. "I know." He doesn't want to. He doesn't want to explain that the kissing is nice and the touching is nicer and how he likes the way she makes him feel, loose and carefree, like he doesn't have to hide behind a dozen aristocratic masks, like he can be himself except for how he's not entirely sure who that is, anymore. He doesn't want to talk about growing up at court and the thousand and one rules of etiquette and manners and how even kriffing _touching himself_ gets him a stomachful of guilt, knowing that _good boys don't._ He doesn't want to talk about the betrothal that brought him his station and how it's still a thing even if he pretends it isn't and how kissing is one thing and touching is another but _that_ is a whole separate thing entirely and he just, he just can't. He doesn't want to hear her wax lyrical about how kriffed up the entire aristocracy is and everything that's wrong with the Priamsta and how he doesn't have to be one of them (because he _is_ no matter what she says and sometimes it hurts to hear) and he doesn't want her to tell him _you don't have to play by their rules_ because he doesn't know how to tell her that they're his rules, too.

So in the end he settles for "Later, please?" and shuts his eyes when he feels her nod against his back, tries to sleep even though he knows he'll dream of little girls and fire, tries to pretend the guilt away.

\--

She catches him the next day between meetings, trade negotiations for the export of fish to the capital, it probably should be boring but there's something weirdly fascinating in the political dance and how _compromise_ also means _nobody's happy_ even though they're getting a decent price and some better subsidies and the capital is getting a ready supply of fresh high-quality seafood for their fancy caterers. Rial's still mulling it over as he munches a sandwich, too distracted by juggling pros and cons of air vs ground freight travel to notice Asha coming down the path towards him until it's too late. Startled, he chokes on a bite of bread and spiced meat and Asha has to pound him on the back until it finally dislodges from his windpipe, leaving him panting and embarrassingly pink.

"I'll take that reaction as a compliment," Asha teases, and steals a chunk of green sprouts from what's left of the sandwich. Her voice is light enough but Rial can see the tension in the lines of her shoulders, the way she looks at him from under her eyelashes like she can't quite decide how she feels. "Busy day?"

"About the same." Rial clears his throat and takes a couple of swigs from his water bottle to clear the last of the obstruction, and not at all because it means he can focus on something else. "The Minister for Fisheries is still making noises about how our production isn't what it should be. I think he's trying to shame Baron Susa into admitting that he's keeping some back to sell on the sly."

"...and is he?" Asha takes a seat on the bench next to him and draws her knees up to her chest. She's in uniform but Rial figures she must be on break; she's a little too dedicated to the job to blow it off just to talk to him about Selaresk economical intrigue.

"Probably?" Rial relaxes cautiously. This subject seems safe enough. "I mean, I haven't had a really good look at the numbers but it's not that unusual. He's probably funneling the money back into the barony, or using it for bribes."

Asha wrinkles her nose, tucks her legs in a little closer. "Lovely. So he gets rich off stolen goods and the workers get kriffed over when someone notices the discrepancies. Sounds like a great guy, really."

"It's not that bad," Rial protests. "It's almost built into the system, everyone knows there's going to be some…" he struggles for the word, made no easier by the inscrutable look Asha's giving him over her knees. "Some give and take," he finishes lamely. "It's pretty normal in the capital."

"And of course we should all strive to be more like the capital." Her words are bitter, cutting. Rial hunches over the mangled remains of his lunch. "You know the barony isn't risking its livelihood for a few extra credits. You know the barony isn't going to be the one knee-deep in shavit when the inspections go bad. You know the _barony_ isn't the one left behind when the favours run out."

"It works out," Rial tells his sandwich quietly. He's only eaten maybe two-thirds of it but it sits heavily and uncomfortably in his stomach. He and Asha don't fight much, but when they do it's loud and violent and they both end up apologizing before long but this isn't anything like that, this is subtle and biting and awful and she doesn't _understand_ , he thinks in frustration, just moments before she speaks up.

"Forget it, _Count Pernon_." Snapped out hard, ferociously polite. "You wouldn't understand." She pushes herself up and off the bench in one hard movement, stalks down the path with her shoulders hunched before Rial can so much as take a breath. She's gone before he thinks of what to say, or really, he never does think of what to say before she's gone and then he doesn't have to keep thinking of that. He can turn his mind back towards fishing tariffs and quarterly production and shipping times and ignore what just happened. She's just upset. She didn't grow up in the capital, as a Priamsta. She doesn't understand either. She can't.

He doesn't finish his sandwich.

-

_"We hear you've been flying,_ " his mother says. In pale blue-white holo her expression is politely interested, an expression Rial strongly suspects is fake. He wonders who told them. It's no secret how he's been spending his free time for the past five months and it's not like he's the only one with a starfighter somewhere. It's an acceptable hobby, particularly popular among the newer generation who are growing up away from thak-riding and taking to the skies in ever-greater numbers. There's the unspoken rule that of course one doesn't do it as a _career_ , not unless one is of the lower ranks of the nobility, but as a means to pass the time -- even his mother can't find fault with it, he decides.

"I have," he agrees. "It's quite a nice way to pass the time." The Grand Duchess' expresssion doesn't change and, too late, Rial considers that whoever passed along the information that their son was frequenting a hangar in Down's Landing has almost certainly included the fact that he wasn't going there alone. He has a bare moment to consider how he wants to handle this before his mother speaks again.

_"I am pleased to hear that._ " There's an unexpected edge of warmth in her tone. _"Your father enjoyed flying quite a bit, in his youth."_ Rial blinks. He...doesn't think he knew that. _"He took me with him, once or twice, when we were newly married."_ Okay, he _definitely_ didn't know that. _"I understand you have not been flying alone either."_

Aha. There it is. The holo isn't great quality and his mother's face gives him no clue as to how he should proceed. He rejects denial out of hand; she's almost certainly been told about the company he's keeping these days and pretending he doesn't know what she's talking about isn't going to get him out a lecture. No, he might as well own up and face the music. It's not like he's never heard this one before (a brief but painful stab of _Jass_ , finding friendship only to lose it again, a game he hadn't realized he'd been playing until he'd broken the rules) and worse comes to worst he can always pretend he's losing the connection.

His mother clears her throat. Rial realizes belatedly that she's still waiting for an answer, and bobs his head. "I've been spending time with...with someone. With a woman." Oh, no, that doesn't sound right at all. "With a friend. With a woman friend." That's even worse. "We fly together?" He's acutely aware that he's starting to blush, hopes against hope that the quality of her holoemitter is about as good as this one and she won't be able to tell.

_"Does this woman friend you fly with have a name_?" If he didn't know better, Rial would say that the Grand Duchess is teasing him but there's no way that's true, not with the way she reacted last time to someone he wasn't even spending time with romantically. Maybe she's luring him into a false sense of security. Or planning to sic assassination droids on him (unlikely) (probably).

"Aesha. Aesha Sirratartha." There's no reason she'd know the name, as far from the great houses of the Priamsta that it is but his mother nods nonetheless, as though he's just confirmed something for her. "She works in the parliamentary security force. She's very...very…" none of the words coming to mind are words he thinks his mother would appreciate and he struggles for a long moment before settling on, "very bright."

His mother nods again. _Approvingly_. Rial's getting the distinct feeling that this conversation is either a very long and involved dream or that his mother has suffered from some kind of strangely convenient brain aneurysm which has wiped out all her previous feelings vis-a-vis Rial's social life. _"I am glad to hear this,"_ she says politely. Not even a hint of exasperation. _"You will have to introduce us, one day soon."_

Through some miracle Rial manages to prevent his brain from exploding at the mental image of Aesha and his mother in the same room (the room also would explode, he's pretty sure). He stumbles through the rest of the conversation in a haze of confusion as his mother chatters on about this party and that scandal, betrothal and marriage, the death of an old family patriarch, the newest opera season. He asks only once about matters of the council and that his mother skates smoothly away from with the ease of long practice, steering him on to the matter of Count Labann's newest highbred thak so that he doesn't even notice before it's far too late to bring the subject back. Things must be running smoothly, anyway, or surely his father would have said something.

Aesha comes by later that night with a paper bag full of Quarren takeout and a copy of _From Corellia With Love_. They settle down together on the couch and Rial wolfs down noodles as Lance Starkiller, Hero of the Galaxy, alternately blasts and kisses his way through half the sector. Aesha's body is warm against his as she flops bonelessly into his side and licks grease from her fingers. Rial curls an arm around her shoulders and can't help the smile that sneaks onto his face. This is good, he thinks. This is good.

Lance has saved the latest planet in distress with a couple of well timed blaster shots and a witty one-liner and the credits are rolling when Rial brings up his mother's call. Aesha cocks an eyebrow up at him, doesn't move from her relaxed sprawl over his lap. "What did you tell her?"

"That you were a friend." Aesha snorts quietly. "Well, I think my exact phrasing was 'woman friend' so probably she got the picture."

"'Woman friend'?" Aesha makes a face and hauls herself upright, settling back against the arm of the couch. "That just sounds...eugh. Thanks for that."

"I was panicking!" Rial holds up his hands in the universal gesture for 'don't shoot'. "Besides, I can guarantee she had that information already. My mother's spy network is _legendary_."

"Still, though." A doubtful frown. "How'd she react?"

"Honestly? She seemed...happy, I think." Rial half-shrugs, hands twisted together in his lap. "The last few months before I left the capital she kept trying to set me up with people. You're not Priamsta but at least you don't have all that pesky political baggage; you'd be surprised how few eligible widows with ties to our family and similar political views, no recent scandals, and the will to date me there are."

The frown wasn't going away. "Wait, what? Why widows?"

"Well I can't -- I can't get married, you know that." She'd have to have been living under a rock to miss out on the stir it made when Rial was turned into the pointless figurehead of a dead monarchy. "So that ruled out pretty much everyone but the widows or the massively disgraced. There's no way my mother would let me consort with anyone whose lineage was in question or who had brought shame to the court, but most of the widows weren't interested either." And those who were were most definitely _not_ Rial's type. "I think it really bothered her, not being able to see me with someone."

"I hope you know how violently unattractive it is when you talk about how your mother tried to control your sex life," Aesha points out. Rial yelps.

"It's not like _that_ ," he protests. "It's just a big deal, in the courts. Who's seeing who, who's seeing who but on the side, who's marrying who, who's carrying whose baby...all that kind of stuff. I'm her only son, it probably drives her crazy to know that she's never going to get to see me married, or…"

He trails off. Aesha's still frowning at him but there's a different edge to it now, something deeper. She's resting her head on one palm, staring at him like he's just said something incredibly revealing. "...what?"

"You really don't see how messed up this whole thing is, do you?" She scrubs a hand over her face, pinches the bridge of her nose. "I mean...shavit, Rial, we're not in the dark days anymore. You talk about your mother trying to find you a woman like she's...like she's some kind of thak-breeder, looking for the best genetics or longest legs or whatthekriffever, like all this garbage actually _matters_. You nobles are insane. The whole planet's turning into an Imp base and the economy's circling the drain because they're bleeding us dry and my family still pays tithes to the barony whose lands they they live on because they can't own property more than a dessiatin but oh, no, what really matters is _who's kriffing who in the Sithspitting courts_."

She's not shouting, by the end of it, but she sounds like she should be. Rial watches the pulse-point jump in her throat instead of her face and fights back the urge to scream back at her, the same argument they've had so many times before because she doesn't understand and he doesn't understand and all he can concentrate on is how badly he wants to rewind time and make it so none of this ever happened at all.

But he can't do that. Instead, he grimaces and swallows down the hurt and the anger the way he's been doing since he was old enough to know their taste, and says instead, "I'm sorry."

Aesha deflates. Her head drops drown, her forehead meeting her knees with a soft thunk. "Me too," she admits into her legs. "I just don't get it, Rial. I really don't. I know this is how it's always been and blah blah foundations of our government and culture but...out there, Rial," she waves a vague hand at the window, "out there they're moving on. People are fighting for change. For a better planet. The Prims, the aristocracy, the Empire...it's not working anymore. If it ever did." Her hand drops limp to the couch. Her breath is a heavy sigh. "I kinda thought you saw it the same way. When they sent you out here…"

She trails off. Rial glances away. He'd almost started to forget the humiliation, the way it's all turned out for the better but that doesn't mean it didn't start off raw and hurting, that his time here is anything but a punishment like some small child sent to his room for a tantrum. He'd almost started to forget what he'd fought back against.

"When my father told me," he says softly, not watching her but the window instead, the first stars starting to show through the late dusk, "I asked him if it was a punishment." His mouth twists. It's not quite a smile. "He said it was a learning opportunity."

Aesha's comm chirps. Rial glances back in time to see her face settle into a distracted frown as she reads the message, see the muscles in her neck tense and then relax with a little too much purpose to be true calm. She tucks it back into her pocket and pushes herself upright and off the couch in one smooth motion, smoothing her hair back behind her ears. The kiss she presses to Rial's lips is soft and quick. When she pulls away, her expression is unreadable.

"So learn," she says.

And she's gone.

-

Aesha doesn't mention the near-fight when he sees her at the hanger the next day but then, to be fair, that's pretty par for the course with them. Rial is dimly aware that pretending nothing's wrong is only going to last him so long but it's working so far (and, he admits to himself in his more savage moments, it's worked for his parents for how long now? So he can figure it out--) and he's certainly not going to rock that boat. She also doesn't tell him where she had to go when he asks. "Don't worry about it," she says in the kind of casual tone that means Rial is absolutely going to have to devote some quality time to worrying about it later. "Just some stuff. It's fine."

He doesn't push it. Instead he hands up tools as she hangs awkwardly off the port-side foil, elbow-deep in a snarl of sublight engine wiring. She chats easily about the new thruster stabilizers she's found and the boosts to engine power she thinks she can get, how she can't wait to do the same to her A-wing and how they'll have to find somewhere with open enough airspace to really open them up, push them to the limits. Rial contributes mainly with interested noises and spanners until she finally trails off, slams the panel shut, and looks him in the eye as best she can while pretzeled around a Headhunter. "Mynock got your tongue?"

Rial raises his eyebrows. "You seemed to be talking enough for the both of us."

Aesha shrugs, not bothering to dispute the point. "I get excited."

"It's not a bad thing." Rial climbs to his feet so that their faces are almost level and presses a quick kiss to her lips. She doesn't reciprocate though, and when he pulls her her face has gone unreadable again, lower lip caught between her teeth. "...something on your mind?"

"...Yeah." It comes out in an explosive breath as she untangles herself and slithers to the floor in one ungraceful motion. "Listen, you want to go for a flight?"

Rial has a nagging suspicion the two comments aren't as unrelated as they seem at face value. "Thought you were still waiting on an ignition coil for the A-wing."

"Yeah, I am." She's cleaning up tools rather than meeting his eyes. Of course, it could be an unrelated attack of organization, but Rial's seen her house and he has his doubts. "I thought we could take the Headhunter."

It's not a two-seater and certainly wasn't built with the idea of a backseat pilot, but with Rial's flight bag tossed to the floor and a few nonessentials shoved into cargo there's just enough room for the two of them. Aesha makes a couple of quiet jokes about his height and Rial does his best to parry them, but the tension in the cockpit is palpable and Rial finds himself having to concentrate on piloting more than he has in months. At least he knows where they're going -- there's a nice spot of protected land backing onto the river about fifteen minutes away with a good variety of open meadow and gravel beaches for practicing landings. He goes for the meadow over the beach this time. No sense tempting fate with a tricky landing while he's already only half paying attention.

Aesha scrambles out before him but instead of vaulting to the ground, she branches out along a foil and sits with her legs dangling. Rial aims for a slightly more cushy spot just behind the cockpit, back propped against the open canopy. They sit in silence for a few moments, Rial still and Aesha picking at a frayed cuff on her flightsuit, before she breaks it abruptly.

"Can I ask you something? Something kind of weird?"

Rial blinks in surprise. Somehow, 'weird' wasn't what he'd been expecting to hear. "I -- okay? Sure?"

She doesn't look up from the thread she's industriously unraveling. "You're the royal representative to the council. That means you'd be next in line for the throne, right?"

Politics? _Royal_ politics? This is so far beyond what Rial was expecting that he feels like he's scrambling, searching for footing on icy ground. "That's--" Well, it's right, but. "That's an overly simple way of putting it."

"So you're not." _Rrrrrip_ , goes the cuff of her flightsuit. She starts in on another thread.

"It's complicated." Which, to be fair, could sum up the Priamsta in a word. "The lines of succession are...well, we have people whose whole job is to keep track of them. With my family's ties to the royal lineage through blood and marriage _and_ my engagement to the Princess," and look at that, however many years had to pass before he could say it without flinching, "the archivists determined that I would be the most likely successor."

"Not your father." It doesn't sound like a question.

"Well, no," Rial starts, but as soon as he opens his mouth to really dive into the strangeness of Priamsta hierarchy and the nobility he has to close it again. Because -- well no, hang on -- "He renounced the throne in favor of his brother -- Emperor Antbbianplourr -- way back when. The line goes down through that side of the family to Uthorferrellcartha." _Went_ down. "I think -- he wouldn't have a claim anymore?" Even as he says it there's a flutter of uncertainty in the pit of his stomach. He hadn't thought it about at the time. Everyone had been so certain. Everyone had looked to him. His father had looked to him. And no one had said anything, after...

"It just seems strange." Aesha seems pretty strange herself. Her sentences are clipped., her shoulders are hunched with tension. "That it wouldn't go to your father. Or your mother." A brief pause. Another seam splits open under her fingers. Quietly, "Or anyone else."

Rial opens his mouth to reply and finds that he can't. It's not like he hasn't had the same thoughts. The night after the meeting, sitting on his couch with his head in his hands and wondering why him, why him of all people, why not literally anyone else -- but the archivists had said, but the Empire had said, but his _father_ had said and his father wouldn't have, his father wouldn't--

His father, in the dark and dust of an old service corridor. Rial's cheek stinging from the slap. The bodies of the royals not yet in the ground. _Eiattu is reeling. Her people need stability. If you have any pride in her at all, you'll stop hiding and start building for the future. The Emperor and his family are dead. They can no longer shape our world. You can._

_And you_ will.

Rial swallows hard. His ears are buzzing. His heart feels like it's beating at the speed of light. He stares at the durasteel in front of him, the paint chips and occasional grease smear. His voice, when he speaks, sounds stronger than it feels as he parrots the Empire's directive. "It doesn't matter anyway. There's no throne to inherit. It's a ceremonial position."

He doesn't hear her move but he feels her hand on the center of his back, a light touch that he almost can't stand. He doesn't want this. He doesn't want to think about this. He doesn't want to hear Aesha as she settles next to him, as she says "It doesn't have to be." He doesn't want her to touch his cheek, to gently turn his head until he's looking at her.

But he doesn't stop her either.

"You're a good person, Rial." He can't read the tangle of emotions on her face. He doesn't know what he's feeling. "You really are. You're not like the rest of them. You don't _have_ to be like them. There are people, organizations...resistance. You could help. You could make a difference." She leans forward. Her lips are dry and cracked when she brushes them against his. " _We_ could make a difference."

Rial closes his eyes. He can hear speeder traffic, faint in the distance. The jungle smells like rain and broken green things and rot. The Headhunter underneath him is warm. He thinks he can feel the planet's rotation, the faint spin of his world as it traverses the stars. He knows that if he looks up he'll be able to see the distant triangle of a Star Destroyer in low orbit despite the brightness of the afternoon sun. He knows that Aesha is waiting for an answer. He knows what she wants him to say, just as he knows he can't say it.

His mouth is dry, and he has to clear his throat before the words will come. "I tried." His fingers tangle in his lap. He doesn't open his eyes. "They sent me here. The council -- the Priamsta, they're working under the Empire. I can't just…" the words run out. Or maybe there's too many of them that he doesn't know how to say, that he's trained himself to swallow back. It's one thing to take Selaresk as a learning opportunity and try to figure out the intricacies of governance so that he can argue his beliefs more effectively, act in better faith for the people. It's a whole other thing to talk about resistance.

"The council, the Prims, the Empire? Gods, Rial," and he feels her turn away, opens his eyes to the sight of her back and a clenched fist resting on the edge of the canopy, "they're one and the same. I'm not talking about kicking the Imps off-planet just to go back to bowing and scraping before the nobles. It wasn't the Empire that killed the royal family--"

"You think I don't know that?" Rial's hands are shaking no matter how hard he twists them together and he can't make it stop. "I _know_ what they did! I _know_ what they're like. I'm _one of them_." Gods know she's thrown it in his face enough. "You're talking about kriffing treason. How is that supposed to do anything? You're asking me, what, to help you overthrow the Priamsta? To overthrow my _family_? How is that any different than what they did?"

"Because what they did, they did for _money_!" Aesha turns. Her fist slams into the corner of the canopy; the shudder echoes through Rial's back. Her eyes are red. Her cheeks are damp. "They killed for money, and for land, and for a political system that had dared to stop benefiting them quite as much as they thought they were entitled to. Because what they did, _Count Pernon_ , they did for themselves. Not for the people. Not for Eiattu. For the _Priamsta._ " She bites her lip hard, takes a shuddering breath. "The Empire might be infecting Eiattu like a disease, but this planet was rotten to the core long before they ever touched her. Remember that next time you're drinking wine in the palace and gossiping about who's kriffing who."

She's sliding past him and into the cockpit before Rial can open his mouth. It doesn't matter; there's no reply he can think of to give. His heart is still roaring in his ears as he follows her, silently cramming himself into the cramped space behind the pilot's seat as she runs through pre-takeoff checklists. Aesha doesn't speak to him as she guides the Headhunter home to Shrie's tiny airstrip. Rial doesn't speak to her as they finish the postflight maintenance in silence, the only sound the soft rumble of the generator on the refueler and the whirr-beep of the astromech updating its logs. He thinks about it, once or twice, but in the end there's nothing left that he can say.

\---

Two days after the disastrous flight there's a new security guard in Aesha's usual rotation. He doesn't know where Aesha is. It's not a temporary fill, he tells Rial. He's been transferred in permanently. He seems happy enough about it. A cushy position, he calls it. Rial absent-mindedly congratulates him and tries not to spend the next two budget meetings and a land-use proposal replaying their last meeting. It doesn't work particularly well.

Three days after the disastrous flight Rial watches someone else move into the house next to his. She's an older woman with a strong Corellian accent; he watches her throwing boxes around like they weigh nothing and tries not to brood about how he didn't see Aesha move out. Instead he does his neighborly duty and brings her lomin ale and takeout, and doesn't ask about the previous tenant.

Five days after the disastrous flight Rial's sprawled out on his couch watching some embarrassingly sappy romance holo (starring an actress who's got far more chemistry with the actor playing her sister than she does with the lead) when his comm chimes with the familiar pattern of an unknown caller. Rial doesn't really feel like listening to someone try to sell him a better deal on speeder insurance but, he decides just before it goes to messaging, anything's got to be better than the current entertainment. He reaches behind his head to smack the receive-call button without looking. "Hello?"

" _Rial. Hey._ " He recognizes the voice before he whips around to see the face outlined in wavering lines, hair chopped shorter than it was a week ago but still so, so familiar.

"Aesha?" She glances away from the projector for a moment like she's distracted, maybe listening to something, and Rial finds himself drawing closer as though it'll make it easier for her to hear him. "Where have you been?"

She doesn't react. Or answer the question. " _I don't have much time._ " The image wavers. Whatever holocomm she's using must be old, the quality is awful. The sound, too. He thinks he can hear the tinny sound of announcements in the background. A spaceport? Her next words seem to confirm it. " _I'm shipping out in a few minutes. I just wanted to say goodbye._ "

"Shipping out?" Rial feels like he's scrambling to keep up. How much time is not much time? What is she even talking about? "Where are you going?"

Her mouth twists in an awkward smile. " _Don't worry about it. Somewhere -- somewhere I can make a difference."_ She glances behind her again. " _I took the A-wing. Shrie said you could keep the Headhunter at her place for a while if you needed to. Take care of that thing, okay? I just got it flying right. Don't kriff it up."_

"How long are you going to be gone?" His comm coughs up the location of the incoming transmission even as he tries to wrap his mind around what she's telling him. _Alarai Memorial Spaceport._ Public comm. "Aesha, what are you _doing_?"

" _Don't worry about it_ ," she repeats. The image crackles, fuzzes out, fades back in even as Rial's heart leaps into his mouth. " _Listen, Rial, I just wanted to say-- uh, ah, kriff._ " She chokes on a crackly laugh, scrubs a hand over her face. " _I like you, okay? I like you. Your hair is kind of stupid and you have the_ worst _taste in holos -- yeah, I can hear what you're watching -- and you are so,_ so _Sithscrewing naive sometimes but I still really like you, even when you make me want to scream._ " There's a drawn-out pause. Another unintelligible announcement filters through the speaker. Rial's frozen, mind scrambling. " _But this isn't working. And this isn't going to work. We're different people, Rial. Like -- really, really different people. And I need something else. I need to_ do _something else."_

From outside the holocomm's reach, a hand lands on Aesha's shoulder in blurry blue and white. She turns to whoever it is, says something Rial can't quite hear. When she turns back she's smiling again. " _Keep flying, okay? And try to remember what we talked about. It's not too late to make a difference._ "

"Aesha," Rial says, and doesn't quite know what else to say, what else can he say that's not _what the kriff are you doing_ or _just come back, don't be stupid_ or _listen I really really liked you too and I don't want to lose this, I can't lose this, don't--_ but all that comes out is, "Aesha--"

She cuts him off. _"I'm sorry, Rial, I really have to go._ " She bites her lip, brings one hand up in a half-wave. " _I'll see you when--"_ but that's when the transmission cuts out, one brief frozen moment of her head and shoulders before the light fizzles into nothing.

And she's gone.

-

Three years one month and eight days after being seconded to Selaresk's governor, Rial goes home.

The capital hasn't changed much. A new statue or two in the palace gardens, a familiar restaurant that's not there anymore. A fresh coat of paint in the conference rooms. Even his quarters are the same. Someone must have readied them in preparation for his arrival; there's no dust to be found but even the sharp chemical tang of cleaner can't cover up the staleness of the air. Someone's put an empty easel in his spare room and filled the little desk with paint-pots, brushes, solvents and rags. Rial runs his fingers over the blank canvas, and wonders. He didn't paint much in Selaresk.

When he leaves his room, the people in the corridors offer half-bows or soft murmurs of greeting as he passes. They don't meet his eyes. Did they do that before? He can't remember. By the time he reaches the hangars it's stopped feeling strange and his face has schooled itself into a mask of polite indifference seemingly without any input from his brain.

The Headhunter has a space to herself near the rear of the private hanger. She looks strange among the pleasure craft and sleek new starfighters, as though someone's put her here instead of in a scrapyard by mistake. Her paint job has always been last on their list of priorities; as new parts had been installed they hadn't bothered changing the colors so that her exterior is a patchwork of gray and green and red and the dull shine of untreated durasteel. One of her side panels is still missing, exposing the snarls of wiring inside like an open wound. She needs work, Rial knows. He's rather neglected her the past couple of months. He runs an apologetic hand over her belly panels, feeling the mismatched rivets.

"Your mother said you had acquired a starfighter." Gror's voice behind him makes Rial jump, startling backwards and narrowly avoiding smacking his head on the foil. His father's expression doesn't change. "Did she tell you I used to fly as well?"

"She mentioned it." Rial ducks back out from underneath the ship, locks his hands behind his back. In the bright lights of the hangar his father looks much the same as he did three years ago. Perhaps a little more gray, a little more lined. Still infinitely composed. Rial can't reconcile the image in front of him with the idea of a much younger Gror Pernon in a flightsuit and helmet, riding the wind. "Why did you stop?"

Gror gives a small wave of his hand in what Rial suspects is the closest he'll ever get to a shrug. "My path lay elsewhere. Other priorities made themselves known."

Rial leans back against the Headhunter's flank. "Politics." He doesn't meet his father's eyes. They haven't spoken in months and something hangs between them, some invisible tension.

Gror concedes the point with the slightest nod of his head and deftly changes the subject. "The governor gave quite the favourable report on your time in Selaresk," he notes. "He seemed impressed by your dedication. I think he had rather hoped you would remain."

Rial swallows back a dry laugh. "My path," he quotes softly, "lay elsewhere." His fingers skate over the cool metal behind him. There's a rough spot there where a weld didn't hold, a flaw in the smooth metal. Another thing he needs to fix. "Other priorities made themselves known."

"The council will be all the better for your presence, my son." When Rial glances up, startled, he finds that his father has moved closer. In his immaculate court dress he looks as misplaced in the hangar as the Headhunter. "I hope you were able to learn from your time away." Apparently intending to end the conversation, he offers a half-bow and turns as though to leave.

The words are out of his mouth before Rial can stop them. "Father, wait. Please." Even as Gror pauses and turns back he's cursing himself internally because he doesn't really want to have this conversation, not now. He's thought about it enough times since Aesha said it out loud, since he had to stop pretending he understood, since he let himself acknowledge the truth. He knows well enough. But something wild inside of him wants to hear his father say it. Needs to hear him say it. Has waited this long and isn't going to wait any longer. "Why was I chosen as the royal representative?"

One perfect white eyebrow arches. "The archivists--"

" _No._ " It bursts out and is almost immediately followed by a flood of heat in his cheeks. Rial ducks his head, controls his breathing. "I'm sorry, Father, but no. I know the Princess and I are -- were -- considered joined in the eyes of the law but I know how the succession goes, I _know_ I wasn't the next in line. Why did they pick me?" _Why did_ you _pick me?_

Gror scrutinizes him for a long moment, expression unreadable. The silence stretches out, thin and taut. Rial's heart sings in his ears. His fingers don't shake but only because they're curled into fists. He doesn't think he realized, before he said it, just how much he needs to know.

Then Gror shakes his head, just once. "Why does it matter?"

And he's turning on his heel and he's striding away and Rial's stumbling backwards like he's been hit, tension breaking with the silence. The Headhunter catches him. He's off-balance and off-kilter, body still ready for a fight that's not happening and head reeling. Why does it matter? Because it _matters_ , because it's the difference between humiliation and pride. Because it's the difference between being chosen to stand for the people or being chosen to follow orders. Because it's the difference between being useful or useless, because it's the difference between--

Because it's the difference between--

Between what?

Why _does_ it matter?

"Oh, _kriff_." Rial exhales the words on a shaky breath, squeezes his eyes shut until the patterns behind his eyelids look like bursting stars. He thinks of his father in an old service corridor, in a council meeting, in an empty conference room. He thinks about what he's learned in three years, how to speak without meaning anything and mean everything without speaking, how to listen, how to play the game. How the government works and all the quiet, sneaky ways it finds to work through loopholes. How to close those loopholes. How to change what he wants to change.

No. It doesn't matter. It never mattered. What matters is that the position is his, and that no one will question it. What matters is that he's back in the capital and back on the council. What matters is that he's learned. What matters is that, for the first time, he's on equal ground with the rest of the nobility. And if they don't realize it yet, he'll just have to make them.

_Sithspit_ , Rial thinks, letting his head roll back and thunk quietly off the Headhunter's side.

_I need to grow a moustache._

-

Nothing changes overnight. In politics, Rial learns over and over in excruciating detail, this is an iron law. Nothing changes overnight. Things barely change from month to month, dragging on in meetings and conferences and proposals and consultations and motions and, always, debates full of doublespeak and thin smiles that mean exactly nothing. It's frustrating. It's infuriating. It's painful.

It's...oddly satisfying.

He's appalled to find just how much planetary policy has changed with regards to the Empire since he's been gone. It's not just the taxes and production percentages now, it's infrastructure and forward planning and _law_. The Moff's fingers seem to be on everything he can find and she's good, he hates it but she's damn good at finding the soft spots of the nobility and setting her teeth in them. Even those members of the Priamsta with anti-Imperial sentiments are grudgingly in her debt or benefiting from her deals. It's frighteningly efficient.

It also hasn't gone unnoticed. The media mutters darkly about loss of freedom and civil unrest. Protests spark off in major cities, marches and petitions. The Moff demands their rapid stifling. Her stormtroopers march with Eiattu's guard. The mutters grow louder.

The name of the Priamsta is inexorably tangled with that of the Empire. The nobility begun these deals and, Rial thinks sometimes in the dark of the night, they may die by them. He has the blessing of being slightly less implicated than most; his position as representative of the throne earns him a sort of grudging respect by his connection to the deposed royals and he's seen as more of a figurehead than anything else, a spokesperson the Imperials use whenever they want to announce something they suspect the people won't take kindly to. He learns quickly how to master public speaking, refines his mask of tranquility until it rivals that of his father. The moustache helps.

Outside of the public eye, he does what he can. There are more than he expected who are sympathetic to his cause, or at least to that part of it which involves separating Eiattu from the Empire. Far fewer are interested in his concerns that the Priamsta might just be getting a little too keen on furthering their own interests at the expense of the people; this isn't particularly surprising but it is a little disheartening. Still, he'll take what he can get. The Empire is the immediate threat that he can see, the rest can wait. The monarchy's worked so far, after all.

So he grits his teeth and speaks for the Empire in public, stays silent for the most part in the conferences and council meetings. No one pays him much attention. Since coming back from Selaresk he has slipped easily back into his place as a young noble; his court dress with its sash and insignia has become almost as comfortable as his flightsuit once was. He cultivates his moustache and collects gossip, dances with widows and talks about the surprising cold of the winter season at dinner. And one by one, he identifies those who look away when the Moff speaks, whose signatures on her documents are reluctant.

Nothing changes overnight. But as the months pass and the protests grow more frequent and the news starts talking of resistance outside their small planet, Rial knows that change is coming just the same.

-

Seven years four months and twenty-four days after the coup, Alderaan falls.

It's the middle of the night when his comm goes off with a chirping emergency signal that pulls him gasping out of sleep. His first thought is his parents and his second is the palace, but when he smacks at the call button with one hand the only message he receives is one demanding that he present himself to the Moff without further delay. There's no indication as to why. Rial sets his vidscreen to the news as he gets dressed but there's nothing there that he can tell, just rehashed nobility gossip and the latest zoneball scores. The corridors are empty with the exception of janitor droids and floor-scrubbers whirring quietly about their business. He can't hear anything out of the ordinary.

In the conference room his comm directs him to, Rial finds the rest of the council. Some are still in their sleeping clothes, others in outfits that make him suspect it wasn't their own quarters they were in. Colonel Davi is there, along with a small contingent of Imperials that Rial doesn't recognize clustered around a holocomm. Moff Tavira is there too, a wavering image in blue and white. She doesn't look happy.

"Councilmembers." Her voice is tight. "It is my duty to inform you that a short time ago, the Empire deployed a newly-developed weapon against the planet of Alderaan. The planet was completely destroyed as a result. There are no known survivors."

Almost immediately voices rise in a hum of shock. Rial, standing next to his father, can't wrap his mind around it. An entire planet? Gone? He knows his history and he knows of weapons that have been used to scorch land or poison atmospheres, but this is something altogether different. How can a planet be destroyed, and so utterly as to have no survivors? It doesn't seem possible. It can't be possible. No one should have that kind of power. No one would _use_ that kind of power. Surely not even the Empire would dare.

"The news will arrive soon enough. We wished to make you aware of the situation." Rial jerks his attention back to the Moff as she continues speaking. "People will have...questions. We are preparing a statement to be released shortly. A press conference will be held at 1300 hours." Rial isn't sure what the quality of the holo is like on her end, but the Moff's eyes find him easily. "Count Pernon, you will deliver the statement. You will not be expected to answer questions. Is that clear?"

There's another buzz of inquiry. Rial catches a glimpse of Count Labann, pale and tense, shouting something at Colonel Davi. Someone else is waving their arms as they try to catch the Moff's attention. Next to him, Rial's father is a statue. He's not speaking. Perhaps he already knows his questions won't be answered. Regardless it doesn't matter, the holo flickers out and a grimacing Colonel Davi begins the thankless job of clearing the room.

When Rial returns to his quarters, he finds he can't sleep. He trawls through the holonet to find the first trickles of rumor and fact, _I got cut off talking to my parents on Alderaan and I can't reconnect -- comms won't go through -- does anyone know what's going on -- navigation's all kriffed up -- no signal._ Hours later, as the morning sun begins to filter through his window, the first video clip is leaked through an anonymous source.Two-dimensional, grainy as hell. No audio. The first thing he thinks is that it looks fake, like something someone's mocked up as a joke. One moment Alderaan is there and the next there's a beam of light and the whole world just -- goes away in fire and debris. Not possible, he thinks. Can't be possible.

But it is.

At 1300 hours he stands at a lectern in front of a crowd of holocam lenses and recording droids, anxious faces that are uncharacteristically silent. Palace guards and stormtroopers stand side-by-side by the doors. Neither Colonel Davi or the Moff are present but the hawk-faced woman whose name he's never learned is standing behind him. She's the sole Imperial officer present. Rial wonders if the rest are busy doing damage control or if they're just in that much of a panic.

He has a datapad with the statement on it and they've set up the autoprompt as well, which is probably a good thing because when Rial glances down the words blur into a sea of black and white. He closes his eyes for a brief moment, takes a deep breath. Smooths whatever tiny cracks may have appeared in his mask, and clears his throat.

"People of Eiattu." The sound of his voice is almost a surprise, clear and strong. For a moment, he thinks it's his father speaking. "It is my sad duty to inform you that yesterday, the Core planet of Alderaan was destroyed." Whispers, murmurs, but no surprise. Of course they knew already. They're here to know why. "As you are no doubt aware, the Galactic Empire has come under attack by an organization which seeks to destroy order and sow chaos. Their terrorists have caused untold damage to Imperial systems and citizens. Yesterday, they attacked a peaceful space station which was involved in developing new technology. During this conflict a new weapon was deployed, causing the destruction of the planet. We will all mourn this tragic loss of life which was brought about by so-called 'freedom fighters'. Rest assured, the Empire will do everything in its power to protect our planet and -- and keep our citizens safe through the coming war." The hitch in his voice could have been nothing. A dry mouth. A momentary hesitation in the autoprompt. His expression hasn't changed, he knows. The words coming out of his mouth are not his. He is as a droid, reciting his programming. "I will not be taking questions at this time. Please direct further inquiries to your local Imperial embassy. Thank you for your time."

He's in the process of stepping back when one of the woman near the front steps forward, calling out, "Count Pernon! Are you saying that the Empire has a weapon which can destroy a planet? Why was it developed? How--" only to be cut off as a stormtrooper grabs her arms pulling her backwards. She stumbles. Her holocam falls, bounces off the ground with an unpleasantly broken noise. The room swells with angry voices. Another woman comes up between them, trying to pull the stormtrooper off. Someone throws a stylus. Another stormtrooper raises his weapon. Everyone is shouting. Everything is loud.

"Count Pernon." The hawk-faced woman's voice is cool and calm in his ear. "I suggest you take your leave." Her hand on his elbow makes it clear that it's not a request. She steers him towards the small door at the back of the room. There's a holdout blaster he never noticed she was carrying in her right hand. Behind them, something smashes. Someone screams. "Your part here is done."

The door closes behind him with a soft hiss of pressurized air. The noise cuts off like it never existed. The corridor is very clean, and very bright, and very quiet. Everything is very quiet. When Rial closes his eyes all he can see is the video clip, six seconds of shaky footage and two billion beings exploding into light and ash.

The rest of the day is a blur. In his quarters Rial drifts like an aquarium fish, lost within the confines of his walls. His comm goes off more than once. He ignores it. The news still plays but muted; he catches glimpses of his face every now and then that make him flinch but he can't quite bring himself to turn it off. At some point he finds himself with a glass of nameless liquor in his hand. No matter how many times he drinks from it it never seems to run dry. Eventually he ends up on the floor in front of the vidscreen. He watches someone identified as Count Rial Pernon stand at a lectern and speak about the glory of the Empire. The man's face does not change. His voice does not waver. The deaths do not affect him. He is simply a mouthpiece. A figurehead. _Entirely ceremonial._

He makes it to the 'fresher before he's sick, suddenly and violently, retching until tears run down his cheeks and he thinks he might tear apart with each heave. When the nausea finally abates he's left shaking and exhausted. He feels emptier than he ever has before, like he's vomited up not just a day's worth of binge drinking but every comment he's learned to swallow, every shred of resistance he's ever bitten back, every feeling he's kept behind his teeth. It feels -- not good, exactly, not better, but right. Like a fever breaking. Like he's purged himself of something bitter and toxic. Like some part of him he never knew to recognize has gone, and now he has to learn to live without it.

Alone on the tile floor Rial curls himself forward, presses his head into his knees, and weeps like a child for a loss he can't even name.

-

The next emergency meeting is during the day. This time there's no holocomm, no Moff. Colonel Davi delivers the news through clenched teeth. The battle station -- the Death Star -- destroyed by rebels in the skies above Yavin 4. All hands lost with the sole exception of the Emperor's apprentice. He hastens to add that casualties on the side of the rebels were also severe and that reprisals will be swift, but that doesn't stop the shocked whispers.

This time, the announcement is pre-recorded. The statement Rial reads aloud to the glaring eye of the holocam is full of rhetoric and spin, focusing on the need for unity and strength. Eiattu must support her patron, the Galactic Empire, against the extremists of the Rebel Alliance in this civil war. She must not fall victim to their propaganda, their lies. She must stand strong, and offer what she can to ensure victory. Has the Empire not protected them? Has the Empire not strengthened their economy, provided jobs, improved technology, ensured security? Is it not time for the Eiatti to give back what they can?

"This is not our war," the Baron Esstei says when the first new treaties are handed down with Moff Tavira's signature. It catches Rial off-guard; he's never pegged the old man as being interested in much other than his vineyard and his racing thaks. "We need not bankrupt ourselves to fund the Empire's disputes." Ah. So perhaps less anti-Imperial sentiment and more concern for his own coffers. Still.

The Colonel smiles. There's no humor to it. "Eiattu is a signatory of the Galactic Empire. Part of that, I'm sure you'll remember, is supporting the Empire in times of need. This is indeed your war, Baron. And the Empire has been...more than generous to the Priamsta over the past years."

The Priamsta. Not the Eiatti. Not the planet. Rial breathes slowly through his nose and forces his jaw to relax, scrolling through the treaty on the datapad in front of him. It's -- well it's not as bad as it could be, he thinks, absently calculating percentages of change. It's not wonderful. It's another link in the chain that's binding them to the Empire after all. But it's not horrific. Some increases in production and export, some decreases in budget for on-planet goods manufacturing. A provision for increased Imperial presence in government. A shift in priorities towards production of munitions, weaponry, replacement parts for fighter craft. Less regulation on Imperial recruitment.

And, he realizes later, hidden in the fine print are subtle incentives. Nothing specific. Little loopholes which, if exploited, could prove useful to anyone with power. The Priamsta own the land, after all, the factories and the corporations and the plants. Now, it seems the Empire is looking to own the Priamsta. And the worst part, Rial thinks, is that the Priamsta will let it happen. Not out of ignorance, but out of greed and the need to maintain the status quo. They will sell their planet if it means their lives won't change.

The treaties are ratified two weeks later. Rial shakes hands with the Moff, and drinks the champagne, and smiles through his teeth.

Something _will_ change. Something has to.

-

"Sedition," Gror says.

"Mundicide," Rial counters. His father remains silent but raises an eyebrow, apparently the extent of his response. Across from him Rial breathes a frustrated sigh and leans on the kitchen counter, propping his chin on one hand and pinching the bridge of his nose with the other, trying to ward off the tension headache he just knows is incoming.

It's been just over two years since what they're now calling the Galactic Civil War began in earnest, nine years seven months and sixteen days since the coup, and about three hundred years worth of stress for Rial. After war was officially declared the Moff blew the dust off Eiattu's signatory contract and put the emergency measures no one ever thought they'd need into effect. Even more factories across the planet retrofitted to produce arms, ammunition, and starfighter parts. Imperial recruiting centers in every city. Starships commandeered, homes annexed, and even rumors of citizens from the smaller towns being press-ganged into the service. Once, Rial imagined Eiattu having her edges nibbled away slowly but surely by the Empire. Now, she is being devoured.

And it cannot, will not, go on. Discussing Eiattu's desperate need to break her Imperial ties openly might well be considered sedition, Rial knows, but he still wakes up sweating from dreams of a green beam of light sinking into the soil and splitting the planet apart like a child's toy.

"It's just not safe," he repeats, struggling to suppress the irritation gnawing at him from his father's willful ignorance. "They destroyed Alderaan and we still don't know why. They have more Super Star Destroyers than they have qualified officers to captain them. And look at the factories! Almost a quarter of our manufactured goods aren't being manufactured anymore and another quarter of the ones that are are being fed directly into the Empire's war machine." The hand that was on his face slams down onto the table. "One way or another, Eiattu may not survive this war."

The Grand Duke's expression is unreadable, hands folded into the long sleeves of his formal court tunic. "Unemployment has been reduced by a significant percentage. Education has increased--"

" _Imperial_ education," Rial interjects, and gets a withering look in response.

"Education has increased. Emigration off-world has increased as well, but I expect that is temporary. Eiattu's children _will_ come home."

"Come home to what? A crippled economy? Full dependance on the Empire?" _A new asteroid field, moons spinning awkwardly in broken orbits._ "Father, you know I'm right. You told me I had a duty to this planet."

"A duty to fulfill your role and maintain order. A duty to which you are beholden by blood and by station." Rial opens his mouth to snap back but Gror raises a hand to stop him. For a moment, he sees his father's mask crack -- only a hair, but enough to see exhaustion and fear warring on his face. When he speaks, his voice is barely above a whisper."I understand, my son. Truly I do. But you need to consider the treason in your words. In the wrong ears...Rial, you cannot perform your duties if you are imprisoned." _Or worse_ , the words behind the silence. Rial has heard how the Empire deals with traitors.

He sits back, scrubs a weary hand over his face and keeps his voice low to match his father's. "So what do I do? Nothing? Just toe the line like a good little Priamsta and get fat off cake and bribes?" He knows his tone sounds bitter and he knows he's insulting his family and he just. Does not. Care. "I can't do that, Father."

"You must." Gror folds his arms again, back ramrod-straight, mustachios perfectly in place. The very picture of a Priamsta councilmember. The very picture of those who allow the Empire to colonize their planet so long as they get to turn a profit off it. Only his voice, tone low enough as to be almost inaudible, betrays him. "You must have patience. If you must fight, maintain discretion. Choose your allies wisely. Be cautious."

Maintain discretion. The words stick with Rial until hours later, sitting on a barrel in the hangar and staring contemplatively at the Headhunter. She's looking -- well, good might be pushing it but she's looking functional at least, and what can't be seen pushes her well past _functional_ and into the territory of _ingenuous_. There's not much more he can do to her, apart from a paint job.

The technician isn't surprised when he requests a stylized Priamsta dragon. Most of the speeders and starfighters in the hangar have the dragon in one way or another, splashed across flanks or resplendent in a family seal. What does make him raise his eyebrow is Rial's color request.

"Blue?" He says, like he's never heard of it. "You sure? Could do you a nice bright red." He flicks an eye up and down Rial, apparently sizing him up, then hazards, "Or purple. You'd have leave to use the royal purple, yeah?"

"Thank you for your input," Rial says with a bright, blank smile. "Blue will do nicely."

When Rial returns to the hangar two days later, it's finished. Still a little damp in places, smelling strongly chemical, but the technician's done a beautiful job despite his misgivings. Rial isn't surprised; blue isn't a Prim color, never has been, but he thinks that might have worked in his favor. Like his father had said, if you must fight, do it with discretion. No Priamsta will think too hard on what it means, distracted by their warmongering, but the common people who see it...

It may be the smallest of rebellions, but staring at the flaring wings and narrow body of the dragon, sky blue against stark white, Rial can't help but smile to himself.

-

It's eleven years two months and four days after the coup when the People's Liberation Battalion commit their first act of terrorism.

The PLB's been active for almost a year now, small grassroots pockets of resistance springing up in the big cities slowly beginning to meld with each other. Their mandate is simple: free Eiattu from Imperial control via the Priamsta they see as responsible (and Rial won't, can't deny that they're right…). What starts as marches and demonstrations rapidly but down by stormtroopers begins to shift into vandalism and demonstrations that turn to riots when the troopers and city police move in. The Moff is furious. A few months in she gets the names of the current leaders, movers, and shakers somehow, through some connection Rial is sure he doesn't want to explore, and a wave of arrests follow. Some go through Eiattu's justice system. Some are prosecuted through the Empire. And some disappear onto the Star Destroyer, never to return. The remaining members scatter and flee into the jungles, where popular rumor says they're building a settlement. They've been quiet. Restrained. Rial was almost thinking it had all blown over.

But now, three months after the raids, they've blown up a building.

"Count Labaan's summer home," Gror informs him as they're walking towards the emergency meeting room. "It appears they had infiltrated the household staff and then planted charges under the foundation."

Rial imagines the palace going up in flames, crumbling to pieces around him, and has to suppress a shiver. "Did anyone die?"

"No deaths." Gror's eyes are fixed ahead, his step steady. "The Count had left shortly before the explosion and none of the household staff were in residence at the time."

Rial mulls this over. "They knew it would happen."

Gror inclines his head in a tiny nod. "We suspect so, yes. Investigations are ongoing." He hesitates for a moment, a move so unlike his father that Rial's stomach twists hard in anticipation before he even speaks again. "There is, however, a somewhat bigger problem at hand."

Sitting in the meeting room ten minutes later, Rial struggles to keep his mask in place. A somewhat bigger problem, Gror had said and he'd thought about bombs, shootings, thought about the risks the palace might offer. He'd never thought--

The holo remains frozen in place in front of him. A man, tall with angular features. Long hair caught back with a tie away from the face, curling at the ends. Well-groomed facial hair. Handsome in a sharp, classical kind of way. He wears a dark tunic with white sleeves that drops in a long V to just above his navel, showing a heavily muscled and hairy chest. The holo has caught him in the middle of shouting; his fist is raised and mouth open, hazel eyes blazing. It's an image Rial can't reconcile with the one in his head, of a small child with close-cropped black hair slicked tight to his head, an inquisitive yet oddly blank expression that always made Rial just a touch uncomfortable. A boy Rial never thought he'd see again.

The Prince Harrandatha Estillo.

"We have not yet had the opportunity to perform genetic testing," Colonel Davi says. He looks like he's enjoying this, a roomful of Priamsta struck pale and dumb by the sight in front of them. "But our contacts in Intelligence assure us that he is indeed the Prince.

Rial swallows hard. His head's spinning. _So Harran survived. Does that mean…_?

Gror appears to have read his mind. "Is the Princess Isplourrdacartha working with him?" The only sign of turmoil is the paleness of his father's face and the rare small twitch of one of his mustachios. Otherwise he might have been talking about the weather.

Colonel Davi clears his throat. "Unfortunately not, and our operatives have not been able to locate any sign that she is alive and in communication with him." Clears his throat again. "But this is irrelevant. What we need to focus on at this time is Harrandatha's return and his place as self-declared leader of the PLB."

Rial shifts his gaze back to the holo. It had been a good speech, stirring and inspirational, full of calls to arms and promises of freedom. Freedom from the Empire. Freedom from the Priamsta. An Eiattu of the people, for the people. There was a blaster rifle on his back. Rial can read the writing on the wall. 

Davi continues. "The PLB cannot be tolerated. They have shown their hand as a terrorist organization that actively campaigns not just against the Empire but also against you, the noble class, the Priamsta. They seek to destroy you and take the world by force." Rial glances around the room. The various members of council are clearly trying to maintain composure but not all are as successful as his father. Count Labaan looks like he wants to vomit. The Baron Erranos has his fingers folded in a white-knuckle grip, face pale. The Duke Rorrandacartha has lost his mask entirely, his face twisted in horror.

"What can we do?" The Baron Esstei is sweating profusely, and his voice trembles. "How can we strike back?"

Colonel Davi smiles. It's not a pleasant one. "The Empire, of course, has access to troops and firepower. But there is a great need for them elsewhere at the moment." Of course. The Galactic Civil War. Rumor is that the Empire has started construction on a second battle station. "In order to assist with these rebels, we would require...further assistance from you. Additional tithes. Additional use of industry." The smile thins until it almost disappears. "You understand."

Rial does understand. Sitting in his father's living room and nursing a glass of Corellian brandy, listening to the faint garble of speech from the news Synna's got on in the next room, watching his father drink. Softly, "Are we sure this isn't a false flag?"

Gror's eyes flick up and over to his son, bushy eyebrows drawing together as he frowns. "It is not. No, the PLB are real enough. And Harran…" he trails off, shakes his head. "I haven't seen him since he was a child. But I think it is him. He must have been smuggled offworld that night."

"He'll be disinherited from the succession." It's not a question. Rial knows full well that he'll never be allowed near the palace.

Gror laughs quietly, a rare enough thing. "He has disinherited himself by renouncing the Priamsta and siding with the rebels. Perhaps he has forgotten, in his years off-world, the benefits of such a station."

That smarts just a little. Rial turns his attention back to his glass, tosses back a mouthful that burns down his throat and sends warmth curling up in his belly, loosening his limbs. "Perhaps he sees the people's struggle, Father."

Gror's attention snaps back to him in an instant. "That is dangerously close to treasonous, my son. You would do well to watch your tongue." Despite the words the tone is nowhere near as angry as it could be. And he's right, Rial knows, he can't say these things, he can't work to save Eiattu from herself except in the smallest ways, the quietest of rebellions. A blue dragon coiling over a Z-95 Headhunter. Challenging every change to the signatory contract. A word, here and there, where he thinks there might be sympathy.

Instead, he says, "Do you think the Princess survived as well?"

To his surprise it's Synna who answers, having slipped in through the door behind him. Her long dress is all yellows and greens, like a spring flower poking up. She crosses to Rial's side and puts her hand on his shoulder, her other hand deftly plucking the glass from his own. "I pray she did. For the planet, and for you. And for myself." She drains the remaining liquid in one long swallow, placing the glass back into Rial's hand. He has to stop himself from gaping; he thinks this is the most engaged he's seen her since he was a toddler.

But of course she'd want Isplourr back for him. Without her, Rial cannot marry, cannot give her heirs to the Pernon titles. If he were to find someone -- Aesha, he thinks of with a sudden stab of something like grief, but she would never have come to the palace -- if he were to choose a partner, they could never be recognized. He wouldn't marry. If a child came from the union, they would be considered a bastard. And the Pernons would die one by one, and there would be no one left to carry on the name. A dynasty, broken. His mother's purpose as Grand Duchess -- to beget heirs who would in turn beget heirs, to continue the family lineage, to keep ties to the throne -- unfulfilled. Her arranged marriage meaningless.

Rial hasn't considered this before.

Synna offers to walk him back to his quarters, and he accepts. She takes his arm and sweeps near-silently next to him, the only noise the swish of her hem on the floor and the soft click of her shoes on the polished floor. When they reach his door Rial hesitates just in front of the keypad, a question he's wanted to ask for years loosened by the brandy and sitting on his tongue. "Mother? May I ask you a question?"

It's late at night, but Synna looks as put-together as she ever has. A small smile hovers around her perfectly made-up lips. "Of course, my son."

"Do you love the Grand Duke?"

The smile disappears. When she speaks, he can almost hear her choosing the words as they're spoken. "I am very happy in my marriage, Rial. Your father is a good man."

"That's not what I asked," he says softly. Catches his mother's eyes and holds them. Her gaze is steady, her mask perfect, her words clipped and precise.

"Why does it matter?"

Before he can answer she leans in and presses a soft kiss to his cheek. He can smell the sweetness of her perfume and it suddenly, achingly feels like being a child again, running to his mother's lap with skinned knees or little injustices. But then she steps back, drops a perfect court curtsy, and inclines her head. "Good night, my son." And she's gone, sweeping away up the corridor, a bright outline in the soft dim of the lights. Back upright, head straight. 

Rial knows the answer to that question by now. No, he thinks. It doesn't matter. What matters isn't the role you're given, it's how that role is lived. And her strength is different than his. His mother's strength lies behind the mask and the careful words, the etiquette. The softest words above backbone of durasteel. She cannot do what her husband can, but she what she does she does with dignity, with strength. With pride.

_For the pride..._

-

Seven months after Harran reappears to declare himself the leader of the People's Liberation Battalion, Rial receives a message from his father. Gror apparently wants to go for a ride, something which...Rial doesn't mind, exactly, he's grown up riding the palace thaks and is as comfortable in the saddle as he is in the cockpit but as far as he knows his father's enjoyment is rather more limited especially as he ages and he'll bet credits to sweetcakes that there's an ulterior motive.

He's right, of course. They make it ten minutes into the jungle, away from prying eyes and ears, before Gror reins in his thak (which flicks its head crossly and gnaws on the bit) and says "I have news, my son."

Rial has to seriously restrain himself from saying _no kidding?._ Instead he arches an eyebrow in near-perfect imitation of Gror and waits. His own thak shifts from side to side, clearly less interested in talking political intrigue than going for a good run. Rial knows how she feels; it seems that these days between the PLB clashes and the Empire he can't get away from...well, anything. No matter how hard he tries. Painting and flying both take time, and that's one thing that's no longer on his side.

Gror looks strangely uncomfortable. It's a look that doesn't suit him, doesn't suit a face more used to being coolly expressionless. Rial's heart beats a little faster. "The princess Isplourrdacartha," he starts, and Rial feels his heart speed up even more, "may have been located."

Rial's mouth is dry. The question feels stupid but it spills from his mouth regardless, apparently without input from his brain. "Alive?"

"Alive."

There's a long silence between the two of them as Rial struggles to remember how to breathe. He reminds himself over and over that this was always a possibility, that she was never officially dead (except she was, she was, she _was_ ) and that with Harran's return, this could be seen as the logical next step. His heart doesn't care. It gallops and stutters inside his chest. Alive, he thinks. Alive. All this time she's been alive. And then he thinks _Jass,_ and _Aesha_ and new guilt swarms up his throat at the reality of how close he'd come to throwing away his position for nothing. If she'd come back earlier…

A thought strikes. "Where is she?"

Gror shakes his head once, slowly. His thak claws at the ground. "Sources are not clear. She moves frequently. She is certainly not on-planet." The barest hesitation. "She may be affiliated with the Rebels."

"Like brother, like sister." It slips out softly but Gror doesn't look scandalized, just...tired. So Isplourr is fighting the Empire in her own way. He tries to imagine it and can't, his mind conjuring up some ten-year-old girl in a tattered military uniform. But she'd be a woman now. "Will she come?"

"She is unaware of our surveillance at this time." Gror's face is inscrutable. "And our intelligence cannot accurately predict her movements. We must be careful. If the Empire learned of her whereabouts…"

He doesn't have to finish the sentence. Rial knows what the Moff would do if anyone threatened her hold on Eiattu, particularly if they were already affiliated with the Rebels. But at the same he's surprised at the sudden swell inside of him that screams _bring her back_. It's the part of him that longs for someone else to take his place, he thinks. The part of him that still dreams of a quiet future painting landscapes and still lifes in some little house by the ocean, content to simply be Count Rial Pernon. No Priamsta. No responsbilities.

It's a nice thought. But now he knows how deep the rot runs beneath Eiattu's upper class and, he thinks, if someone offered him that perfect future on a plate tomorrow he wouldn't take it. How could he, knowing what he's leaving behind?

Gror clears his throat. "I will continue, of course, to keep you apprised." Rial nods absently, mind still tangled up in princesses. "You understand if she does return, she will take your place as representative of the monarchy?"

She's welcome to it, Rial thinks dryly. But what he says is "Yes, sir." The Moff won't care about her claim to the throne, he thinks. The monarchy will be dissolved regardless. Destroyed even further than it already has.

"You understand," Gror continues, and he's watching Rial like he's waiting for something to happen, "if the princess does return, you will be expected to wed." It's less a question and more of a statement that takes a moment or so to catch up with Rial so that when the words do finally worm their way into his brain he has to fight to keep his jaw from dropping.

Marriage. Yes. He'd forgotten that part.

"Yes, sir." He barely recognizes his own voice, droid-smooth with the knee-jerk reflex of courtly manners. He hasn't thought about marriage in -- well, he considers it often in the context of something he'll never be able to do but he hasn't thought about the idea of being actually married to Isplourr in what must be years now. _Married_ . To someone he hasn't seen since she was a little spitfire of a twelve year old, all scraped knees and muddy court dress and routinely sending her parents into fits of despair as she ditched banquets and classes for the stables or the hangar. She hadn't thought much of their betrothal that he could tell. He'd barely known her after all, the age difference making it difficult for them to see eye-to-eye. He'd wondered a bit if her feelings would change ( _or if his would_ ) as they aged.

He'd never gotten the chance to find out.

The thought bubbles in his mind throughout the rest of their blessedly discussion-free ride, the return to the palace, and the various meetings and duties of the day. It lurks in his subconscious as he eats dinner in solitude, staring thoughtfully at the blank canvas in front of him. _Marriage_. It percolates as he paints long into the night. He thinks about his mother standing outside his quarters, _I am very happy in my marriage._ He thinks about all the indiscretions he knows about, the mistresses and paramours. He thinks about the Lady Jassenecatha, whom he could not be seen to be friendly with less he dirty his station and damage hers. He thinks about Aesha, who was nothing in the eyes of the court and who could have been everything to him.

Standing alone in front of a canvas that's all broad strokes of purple and gold and bright Priamsta crimson, Rial closes his eyes and tries to clear his mind. And if it doesn't work, well, at least he can pretend it does.

-

Five months after Gror drops the bombshell that Isplourr is still alive, the Emperor and his apprentice are killed at Endor.

The rumors travel faster than the Imperials can catch them and this time Rial knows, when the emergency signal chimes and he heads for the meeting room, just what it is they're going to learn. It still doesn't seem quite real, not even with the Moff standing in person at the front of the room and speaking in quietly shellshocked tones about the destruction of the half-completed battle station and the loss of their leaders. She gives as little information as she can and spends most of the time assuring them that this will not change anything, that the Empire will continue its fight against the Rebels and the galaxy will come to know peace, but she doesn't sound as though she believes it. During the period of restructuring, she says (Rial thinks: a kind word for violent promotions and demotions and a sudden power vacuum just waiting to be filled), the Empire will put a temporary freeze on many of their Eiatti endeavors.

The PLB are bolstered by the news. Riots develop across the planet, Imperial recruiting stations targeted for vandalism in the smaller city-states and destruction in the larger. Harrandatha seems to be everywhere, exhorting his people to rise up and rail against their Imperial occupiers. Palace staff go missing overnight and although no one will acknowledge it, Rial knows that they've fled into the jungle camps. Fuel prices shoot up almost overnight, panicking manufacturers instruct factories to lay off workers in anticipation of a sudden decrease in the war effort, and nobles retreat to their fiefs and baronies to frantically start liquefying assets. At court there is a concerted effort to pretend as though nothing is wrong, banquets and balls continuing as planned, but all Rial can see is chaos and uncertainty papered over by a thin veneer of tradition and etiquette.

After over a month of increased PLB activity and the economic upheaval which follows, the Empire abruptly sweeps back with a vengeance. Imperial garrisons are doubled. Stormtroopers are everywhere. TIE fighters scream across the sky, setting fire to the jungle where the people hide. The Moff promises even more of her still-vast resources to put down the budding rebellion in exchange for tithes and tributes, demands control of the factories and farms, an Imperial representative in every local council. The Priamsta balk. The Empire pulls back. The riots continue. Blood spills in the capital's streets. A barony burns, then another. The near-daily meetings of the council become filled with shouting and posturing, sound and fury. The Moff sits back and watches.

It's only a matter of time before the council concedes to her demands, Rial knows. They didn't care so much before but now it's their lands being targeted, their people being threatened, their livelihoods being ruined. Their fortunes being lost. No, they'll give in. He can't fully blame them; he has thought sometimes, watching the holos of smoke and tear gas as the people revolt, that anything must be better than this.

But the Empire is not. And the people -- they are fighting for their lives and their world the same way Rial has been for the past years, the only difference being how they're going about it. His way has always been quiet words and forced debates and careful wording in treaties. Their way, of course, is a bit more…explosive. But then, he thinks drily, there's something to be said for a lack of subtlety. It certainly demands attention.

He voices these thoughts to his father one afternoon as they're gathering for yet another fruitless council session, and receives a withering look in response. "They are sowing destruction and chaos, Count Pernon." _Ouch_. "Change cannot be brought about by the ruination of all we have fought so hard to establish."

But Rial is tired and frustrated and oh-so-done with all of this and so he can't quite help himself shooting back with "Fought so hard to keep from ever changing, you mean."

The withering look turns into a full-on glare. The Grand Duke doesn't bother dignifying him with a response, just sweeps ahead into the meeting room with his hands folded into his sleeves and his back ramrod-straight. Rial's left feeling oddly pleased, like he might have just actually gotten one over his father.

The feeling doesn't last long into a meeting filled with yet more shouting and struggles between the nobles who are feeling the heat and want to accept the Empire's terms and those who haven't yet suffered and are strongly pushing to keep Eiattu at least slightly less dependant on Imperial occupation. By the time it's over Rial feels almost raw, like being a child and spending too long in the sun. He begs off the court dinner that night and settles in his quarters instead, the news playing softly behind and a new blank canvas in front.

He's toying with the idea of painting his Headhunter when the news changes to another clip of Harrandatha speaking. The man certainly has charisma, Rial can't deny him that. He exhorts the crowd to rise up, to throw off the chains of the upper classes and the caste system which has kept them at heel for so many centuries. To rail back against the might of the Imperial war machine, damaged as it is by the deaths of its leaders. To reclaim what is theirs; land, property, titles, respect and dignity. It's a good speech. By the end of it the crowd is screaming. Blaster rifles fire into the air. Harrandatha steps back, breathing hard, and Rial sees the smile on his face self-satisfied and smug.

Rial can't help but shiver.. As the news changes again to reports of speeder crashes and court scandal he turns back to his canvas, and finds that the urge to paint has left him.

-

Four months after the Battle of Endor and the fall of the Emperor, Rial is woken early by the soft chime of a summons to his father's quarters. There's no emergency tag attached but it's still worrying and he dresses rapidly, hurries through the corridors to his father's door. Gror opens on the first knock looking far too put-together for the hour. "Ah, Rial. Thank you for coming." He doesn't step aside to let Rial into his apartments and neither does he let Rial speak, continuing on breezily as though nothing is strange. "I was hoping we might walk together." Without waiting for an answer he sweeps out into the hallway, door closing behind him.

He walks quickly enough that Rial doesn't catch up to him before they're at the doors to the west upper gardens. At this time in the morning the only guard looks sleepily surprised to be disturbed but obediently stands aside and allows them in. The morning sun is just peeking up over the distant mountains and everything seems washed in pink and gold; the flowers blooming from every corner, the worn flagstones, the palace walls, even the faraway early speeder traffic takes on a dreamy hue. It's remarkably peaceful.

They walk in silence for a few moments, heading deeper into the foliage. The upper gardens have been constructed on wide terraces of hewn rock with the plants inset into long stripes of soil that criss-cross the flagstones and climb the walls. It's a marvel of botanical engineering and it's one of the few places Rial really enjoys spending time in; he's had inspiration for more than one painting while walking among the blossoms. This morning, though, his mind is on other things. Like why his father would bring him here at this time with no explanation.

He's just opening his mouth to ask when Gror turns the corner and settles himself on a low bench, patting the wooden seat next to him in a quiet invitation. Rial settles himself down as well and turns to his father, but Gror once more beats him to the punch.

"I apologize for the sudden summons," he says. His face is inscrutable as always. "I wished to have the chance to speak to you alone, outside the palace walls." Unspoken, _away from prying ears_. "Rial, the Princess Isplourrdacartha has been found."

Rial doesn't speak. There's a roaring in his ears, a heartbeat that seems far too quick to be his own but must be. Found. The princess has been found. It's somehow different than just knowing that she was alive, somehow more real. Alive and found. He swallows hard, and finds his mouth has gone dry.

Finally, he clears his throat and tries for words. "Where?"

"She has joined the Rebel Alliance." _Oh, Sithspit._ An image rises in his head of a woman who looks like the female version of Harran, long hair and wild eyes, exhorting a group of people to rise up. "Our sources indicate she flies with their starfighter squadrons." The image changes. Now the woman is in the cockpit of a starfighter, strafing lasers down the main streets and tearing chunks from the palace walls with proton torpedos. "So you will have something in common, at least."

The joke falls flat but at least it has the desired effect of shaking Rial out of his imaginings. She may not be like that, he reminds himself. He last met her when she was just a child, already a little wild thing but she seemed...kind. Moreso, at least, than the brother the palace whispered about when they thought no one could hear. "You think she will return?"

"She will." Gror sounds smoothly confident but Rial's not so sure. They don't know where she's been all this time, who's raised her. How she's grown. Eiattu may be nothing but a bloodstained memory to her, a place to run from rather than towards. "With Harrandatha's disinheritance she will, of course, be the next in line for the throne."

"What throne?" Rial almost doesn't recognize the words coming out of his mouth in a sudden rush of frustration. "There's no throne, Father. Remember?" Words from years ago still fresh in his mind, springing to his lips. "The Empire has _'no intention of allowing Eiattu to return to a strict monarchy'_. She would take my place on the council, nothing more."

But Gror is slowly shaking his head. "Eiattu trembles on the brink of destruction, my son." His mask is slipping; Rial can see a pain in his eyes that's almost frightening. His mouth twists. "War and terrorism, the Empire...she will fall, if we do not save her."

The words are bitter in Rial's mouth. "She's halfway there already. What do you expect the princess to do?"

When Gror looks up, the expression on his face _hurts_ . Rial doesn't think he can remember the last time he saw his father look so defeated, so despairing, so...lost. He's not even trying to cover it. "I do not know. But she must do _something_. We cannot continue on like this."

"Father…" but there are no words after because there is nothing that Rial can say that will fix this. Nothing that will make this better. Instead they both stand for a moment in helpless silence among the flowers and the softly singing birds. The world feels strange and surreal and very, very big.

It's Gror who finally breaks the silence. "I leave tonight," he murmurs. His expression has returned to something resembling neutral. "To fetch her."

"You think she'll come?" Rial tries to imagine how he'd react if someone from his past found him hidden deep in the galaxy and told him he had to rule a planet. He thinks about Harrandatha again. His stomach flips uncertainly.

But the Grand Duke is nodding. "I believe she will understand her duty." Personally Rial has his doubts, but his father seems sure. "I do not know how long I will be gone. Please, look after your mother while I am away"

"Of course," Rial says. "And the council?"

"Has been told that I will be away on a diplomatic mission." Well, it's not entirely a lie. "Be cautious, Rial. There are some who may be aware of the true nature of my absence. We do not know how they might react."

Rial nods. He remembers well enough the feeling in the streets prior to the coup, and he knows he's not imagining the feel of it now. His father is right. Eiattu is teetering on the brink of a precipice and he isn't sure which way she'll fall, or even if one side is better than the other.

Gror stands and holds out a hand. Rial clasps it firmly and they stay like that for a moment, face to face, before his father pulls him forwards into a sudden rough embrace. Rial automatically tenses up as his father's arms wrap around him, then slowly relaxes. Holds him in return. They stay like that for a long moment and Rial is acutely aware that this is the first time he thinks his father has hugged him since he was a child. Now, he's taller than Gror is.

When they break apart Gror's face is back to its normal unreadable expression, even if his eyes are a little brighter than usual, the whites tinged with red. His back is ramrod-straight as he offers Rial a deep bow. Rial returns it but when he straightens, Gror is already striding away down the flower-strewn path.

-

That night Rial dreams of flame and the echo of blaster fire, booted feet on stone and a faceless military with the Priamsta dragon on one breast and the Empire's sigil on the other coming to drag him from his bed. He wakes gasping and shaking, heart pounding against his ribcage as though it might break free. When he sits up and scrubs his hands over his face they come away wet with sweat and tears.

He stumbles to the 'fresher and splashes his face with cold water until he feels somewhat more human. The edges of the dream are fading now, the detail disappearing into that murky place dreams go, only the feeling of being hunted left behind. He won't sleep again tonight.

Rial drifts aimlessly through the apartment until his steps take him to his painting room and the wide window with its view of Eiatti jungle and dark sky. From here the stars are muted with light pollution but he can still pick out the stark triangle silhouette of the Star Destroyer in orbit. Briefly, he wonders where his father must be. In hyperspace, he imagines. Or still in dock waiting to take off, held up by red tape until the stormtroopers march aboard and take him for themselves up, up to that faint bank of lights where…

Rial shakes the thought out of his head, hard. There's no reason for his father to be detained. Hells, there's no reason his father should be detained even if the reason for his leaving were public knowledge. The princess is still an Eiatti citizen. He's merely retrieving a wayward lamb.

The princess. Isplourrdacartha. Isplourr, he used to call her, a child's nickname. Does anyone still call her by that name? Does she even still go by it? Or perhaps her name is different now, a new name and a new history so that none would ever suspect where she came from. Suspect who she was, is. A princess. An empress, if the throne were to be restored.

And betrothed.

Rial hardly remembers it, to be honest. He recalls his parents sitting him down and explaining that he would marry the Princess Isplourrdacartha when she came of age, something he had been expecting. Court marriages were nearly all arranged these days; what with certain genetic lines having intermingled a few times too many it was important that any union be both politically sound and capable of bearing healthy children. Love was kept out of the equation as a rule. If one took a paramour on the side, well, that was just part of being a noble. So long as the lineage continued one could do as one liked. He'd never put much thought into it. Sure he'd hoped, a little, that they might come to love each other the way it always seemed to happen in the holoromances he watched on the sly, but he was fully prepared for that not to happen and for them to simply remain friends.

The coup, of course, had seen to the end of that particular line of thought. Dormant for twelve years it stirs now, sends whispering tendrils through Rial's mind. What must she be like, this runaway princess? What will she remember of Eiattu? Will she even want to rule or will she, like Harran, take to the jungle with the rebels and strike the nobility down? And softer still, as he sits cross-legged in front of a blank canvas and watches the faraway stars, _what will she think of me?_

-

Twenty-four days after they walk together in the gardens, the Grand Duke Gror Pernon returns from his mission of mercy. He does not return alone.

"While on a routine diplomatic mission," Colonel Davi tells the room of councilmembers, expression looking like he's just bit into a particularly sour fruit, "the Grand Duke became aware of the presence of the Princess Isplourrdacartha, formally believed to be deceased. He was then able to make contact and...and will be escorting the princess home to Eiattu." The little falter in the middle could be nothing or, Rial thinks, expertly suppressing a smirk, it could be the memory of the dressing-down the Moff surely must have given him.

Or perhaps it's knowing what his next words must be. "The princess will not be returning alone. A delegation from the Rebel Alliance," his lips twisting on the words, "will be accompanying her. A flight group of starfighter pilots known as Rogue Squadron."

A soft murmur echoes around the room. Rogue Squadron is not unknown to many and Rial has to stop himself from letting the surprise show on his face. When Gror had said that she had joined the Rebels as a pilot he certainly hadn't been expecting _this_. "They have offered their assistance to the Grand Duke and the Priamsta in rooting out the People's Liberation Battalion. During the time of their visit, the Empire will operate under a temporary truce given the....unusual circumstances. That is all."

The murmuring begins again, louder this time. Rial catches a glimpse of Count Labann looking white and shaken in a corner, speaking quickly and quietly to Count Aetar at his side. Abruptly a voice speaks up above the rest, coming from the Duke Rorrandacatha. "What of the princess's claim to the throne? She remains heir-apparent, does she not?"

Colonel Davi offers a thin, insincere smile. "This would strike me as a matter to be discussed among yourselves, my lords. Please excuse me." He sweeps away just a little more quickly than strictly necessary and Rial finds himself the sudden center of a group of shaken nobles.

The conversation that follows is long and circular. The princess was never officially declared dead due to the lack of a body so why shouldn't she be empress heir-apparent? But the princess chose not to return to Eiattu, but she chose to ally herself with the Rebels, but she hasn't been here, she doesn't know, she hasn't been here, she is nothing. But they already have a representative of the throne (sideways glances at Rial, a shuffle of feet, soft throat-clearing) and anyway, the monarchy is past. But Eiattu has always had a monarchy. But the line is not dead, not while the princess lives. And on, and on and on and on until Rial thinks he might rip off his own ears if he has to stay a second longer

Finally, they come to the decision to wait until she's on-planet and the Grand Duke, to whom most of them at least still defer, has returned to the council. She will be announced using her full titles as a mark of respect. No one is happy, not exactly, but as they slowly get up and file out of the council chamber Rial thinks it's probably the best they ever could have done, given the circumstances.

That night his mother finds him in a shadowy corner near the main staircase to the ballroom. He's been quietly gnawing on his lip for the last twenty minutes, watching the blur of color and motion as couples move across the floor. The princess hasn't yet been announced although the Rebel Alliance pilots are out there, and with every passing moment he finds himself growing more and more anxious. When Synna's hand settles onto his shoulder he jumps, then blushes as he registers who it is. She smiles softly, hand moving to brush an invisible piece of lint from his chest. "You look very handsome, my son."

"Thank you," Rial mutters automatically, glancing himself up and down uncertainly. He's in standard formal court dress, a riot of gold and purple with a crimson dragon at his throat and he can't help but feel a bit like one of his more abstract paintings. "...I'm not hiding."

Synna laughs. "I didn't say you were." She's smoothly beautiful in cream and gold, hair twisted into an elegant knot. As unruffled as ever despite the circumstances. "It will be alright, Rial. Whatever happens. You have come this far."

Rial opens his mouth but before he can answer, an announcement rings out. "Presenting the Princess Isplourrdacartha, Empress apparent-heir to the royal house! Long may she reign!" He blinks, caught off guard for a moment -- it is the standard royal announcement, albeit one he hasn't heard in over a decade, but surely -- and then the ballroom roars with the ingrained response of "Long may she reign!" and he finds the words on his own lips as well. When he looks over at the Grand Duchess, he finds that she's smiling.

"It would seem someone neglected to reprogram the protocol droids," she observes. Her eyes are twinkling with something like suppressed mischief and Rial can't help but smile in return, a sudden wave of warmth washing over him. His mother reaches out with a gloved hand and catches his chin, holds him a moment, looking over his face. When she lets go her eyes still shine but it's different now, a wet gleam. "I am so proud of you, my son. Now go. Greet your princess."

His princess. Rial squares his shoulders and takes a deep breath. With a confidence he's not sure he really feels, he strides out from the shadowed corner and into the main ballroom. The princess is just in front of him in the receiving line, but her back is turned. She's talking to another of the offworlders, the New Republic pilots she brought with her. As he reaches out for her hand, he catches the last snippet of her comment, "...so much of my life fighting, I can hardly remember what this life is like."

Her handshake is strong. Her fingers are calloused, nails short and practical. She's still not quite looking at him. For a moment the room blurs, memory colliding with reality. Rial sees another hand in his, small and sticky, a child's hand holding his as he kneels in front of her to introduce himself...but that girl is in the past, and this woman, this woman is here and now.

It's been twelve years five months and twenty-nine days since the coup and Count Rial Pernon is smiling as he clasps the hand of his princess.

"It would be too much to hope you would remember _me_ , Isplourrdacartha."

_"Just like the final movie scene_  
_The prince will find his perfect queen_  
_The hero always saves the world_  
_The villains get what they deserve_  
_The boy will always get the girl_  
_When I am king..."_  
-Great Big Sea, "When I Am King"


End file.
